


You're still in, treading water

by beastdrips



Series: Never take me alive [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Asala Taar all around, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, M/M, Qunari Culture and Customs, Slight Canon Divergence, Taking Liberties With Lore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2020-05-14 13:12:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19274032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastdrips/pseuds/beastdrips
Summary: Kaas-Adaar thought the worst was behind him; Par Vollen, the Qun, the Blackwater Serpents... And then the Conclave he was supposed to peacekeep blew up, and now the humans are calling him the Herald of Andraste. To top it off, demons are spilling from tears in the sky, the Divine is dead, the Chantry is losing its mind, and it all has something to do with the strange mark on his left hand.And that’s just the start of it.





	1. Dear Life, I'm Holding On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i couldn’t help myself. There’s still so much more Kaas-Adaar content to delve into and i want to share it with the world so here we are. I don’t want to regurgitate too much in-game dialogue or scenes, so i’m mostly going to stick to the in-betweens, or stuff that would seriously deviate if bioware had let me implement the origin i wanted. LET ME ROLEPLAY IN MY ROLEPLAYING GAME. and to those peepin that romance tag, it’s gonna play out quite differently
> 
> ANYWAY. Welcome back, old readers, and welcome, new readers! This is a sequel to [Run boy, Run](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17273852/chapters/40622240) but it’s not Super necessary to read that fic to understand this one. although you might miss out on the significance of Adaar’s character development and a bunch of names so it's recommended.
> 
> Only one art this time, because there’s gonna be So Many Chapters and my hand will fall off if i draw for every single one of them
> 
> Work title is from _Plastic Soldiers_ by Portugal. The Man. Chapter title is from _Dear Life_ by Beck
> 
>  **Content warnings:** this fic is gonna feature violence; trauma and its effects ie. stuff like flashbacks, dissociation, depression; and eventually sex

Ferelden.

 

How did Katoh put it?

Dirt, dirt, and more dirt. Snow on top of dirt.

For the last couple of days Adaar has been unconscious more than he’s been awake, and at the moment he’s not entirely sure how to process everything that’s happened in those scant hours. He’s sitting before the frozen lake outside of Haven. Inquisition soldiers are training just up the hill; the clashing of swords against shields carries on the breeze. His ass is starting to go numb but he doesn’t feel particularly inclined to move.

Adaar is- well,  _ stressed _ is a hell of an understatement.

The last thing he remembers he had just told Sata-Kas to take his squad and patrol the perimeter of the Conclave. Mages and Templars both were still arriving in hordes.  _ Check for any surprises _ , was what he had said, speaking exclusively in Qunlat.  _ Take Katoh with you, just in case.  _ They avoided Common to prevent others from understanding them - except for the off-chance of a Ben-Hassrath agent in the crowd - and also seem more intimidating.

Right after Sata-Kas left, Meraad came hurrying down the hallway and told Adaar to “get his firm ass downstairs” to cover their spot, because they had to take a leak.

Adaar had (playfully) ribbed them for it, then he’d headed down and idly wandered the dungeon hallways. His previous spot had been just outside the main meeting hall, covering the entrance while Ashaad and Ashaad Two were inside. They had all unanimously agreed putting Adaar or Katoh in a room full of templars would be a bad idea, if anything happened, but he should be  _ close to the action _ anyway, so to speak. His magic is powerful, and sticking him somewhere out of the way would be a waste of it.

But then Meraad had to piss, and Adaar ended up in the basement.

It was even more boring than standing outside the meeting hall and watching people enter while glancing at him warily. It was so boring, in fact, that Adaar forgot about it entirely. That’s what seems to have happened anyway, because in his memory, one moment he’s counting the stones in the wall and the next he’s waking up in a cell, shackled, with swords trained on him. His head hurts, his body hurts, and his left hand feels like it’s burning - beyond burning.

They say everyone who was at the Conclave is dead. Everyone except him.

He doesn’t dwell on it. Not right now. He  _ can’t  _ dwell on it right now.

Adaar looks at the frozen lake. He doesn’t look at the Breach. He doesn’t need to see it to know it’s there. If he listens closely, very closely, he can even hear it; the faint snapping of the Veil twisting in on itself, the groaning and cracking of the fabric of reality slowly shifting around. It makes his skin crawl.

He doesn’t believe in the Maker, or Andraste, but he certainly feels like  _ someone _ is stringing him along for one hell of a ride.

At first he was to be executed, then he was promised a trial, and now he’s.. A hero? No, a Herald. For a god he doesn’t believe in. He taps his fingers against his knee. He supposes there could be a Maker. The world had to come from somewhere, right? But then there’s all that other Chantry stuff and it gets far more complicated than it needs to be. Either the humans have gotten it in their heads they have to do all this stuff, or the Maker is an ass of a god. It boils down to it makes no sense for the Maker to send  _ Adaar _ , if he were to send anyone.

After all, what in the world could he do?

A self-taught Tal-Vashoth mage with an emotional breadth of a teaspoon and rather limited people skills versus an impossible magical tear in the sky? His odds aren’t great. In fact, they are abysmal. The dwarf, Varric, had suggested he run at the first opportunity, but he cannot in good conscience do that. As the only one who can seal Rifts, if he ran he’d doom the world and, subsequently, betray the very foundation of his moral values: to help the people.

If Shokrakar was here, she’d tell him to quit moping, suck it up and do his job. But she isn’t here. She’s somewhere in the Free Marches. Most likely thinks he’s dead, along with everyone else.  _ Don’t dwell on it. _

His ass is most definitely numb by now, and his legs are following down that same path. He’s still not inclined to move. What he should be doing is preparing to journey down the mountain towards the Hinterlands, and find this Mother Giselle woman. Adaar rarely does what others think he should. Sometimes he doesn’t even do what he thinks he should.

The worst part is that his mind is stubbornly _ present  _ for all this bullshit, when for once in his life he would actually somewhat welcome the fog. For it to invite itself in and wrap around his feelings and thoughts and slow them to a near halt. But no, not this time. This time he gets to think, and feel.

His ear tilts back when he hears the crunch of snow beneath boots behind him, but he does not otherwise move. A presence, not familiar enough yet that Adaar can attach a name to it, but one he’s felt before.

“We are prepared to leave whenever you are ready, Herald,” Cassandra says, and hearing her voice makes him feel foolish for not recognizing her presence. It’s very strong. Bright, but not blinding.

He’s met a scant few Nevarrans in his life, but he always finds their accent is pleasant to listen to. She reminds him a little of Shokrakar - tough, determined, in charge - and that makes it easier to trust her, even if she did threaten to kill him a few days ago. But then again, so has Shokrakar on several occasions, so it doesn’t really affect his opinion of her that much.

“ _ Shanedan _ ,” he says. “I will join you in a moment.”

“As you say,” Cassandra replies, and the shift in volume indicates she likely dipped her head in some kind of respectful acknowledgement. Adaar would know for sure if he could remember to look at people when speaking to them. The crunch of snow fades into the distance, and the Seeker’s bright presence disappears.

He’s gonna have to get up soon. Get up, gear up, and head for the Hinterlands to hear what some Chantry Mother wants to speak with him about, because he’s _ the Herald _ .

Adaar wishes he could remember how he got involved in all this. At least then he’d know what or who to blame. As of right now, all he has is himself, and the Mark on his hand.

 

***

 

It starts to get warmer halfway down the Frostbacks. The snow melts away and exposes grass and dirt, and goes from dotting the slopes with small drifts to being entirely absent altogether. The mountain range becomes woodland and fields; the region of Redcliffe, at last.

Adaar misses the Valo-Kas now more than ever. With them he could easily disappear into the group; several of them were bigger than he, and drew more eyes. But now, surrounded by humans, a few elves and a single dwarf, he feels awkwardly large all over again. So many have to crane their necks to look at him, and he draws enough eyes as it is without being graced with divine providence.

Not that they are necessarily bad people to be around, it’s just- well, he doesn’t know any of them. Adaar finds himself in a sea of strangers once more, except the circumstances are far more dire than “I just escaped the Qun” or “I need money”. This time, it involves the fate of the entire known world, which is a whole life’s journey of steps above his own personal struggles. Several life journeys. Everyone’s, in fact.

His companions are an interesting bunch, at the very least.  _ A Tal-Vashoth mage, a Seeker, an elven apostate, and a dwarf heading for the Hinterlands _ sounds like the set up to one of Ashaad Two’s awful jokes. The kind that you laugh at not because they’re funny but because they’re terrible.

The three of them have been quietly chatting amongst themselves throughout the journey - Adaar quiet in front - which has been more than fine, but eventually someone was bound to address him.

“You know, Herald. You’re smaller than most Qunari I’ve met, and that’s saying a lot,” Varric says, somewhat out of the blue. Adaar is a little taken by surprise, not only from being suddenly spoken to, but also by what was spoken. “Not to say you aren’t still atrociously tall.”

“I assume it is the soldiers that you’ve encountered. Yes, they can be very large,” Adaar says. “I don’t believe I was bred to be a soldier, but to be quick and light on my feet.”

Varric throws up a hand in a gesture that unanimously means  _ stop _ . “Hold up- ‘bred to be’?”

“Yes. A pair of big, strong soldiers are more likely to produce more big, strong soldiers, as with quick scouts, smart priests, bakery bakers, and so on.” Somewhere behind him Cassandra quietly murmurs  _ bakery bakers _ . Adaar steps over a root in the nick of time and saves himself from planting his face in the dirt from lack of paid attention. “Par Vollen is full of small Qunari.”

“So what you’re telling me is they  _ breed _ bakers?”

“That’s what I’m telling you, yes.”

“The more I learn about Qunari, the less I understand,” Varric says with a chuckle of disbelief, and a whole slew of other emotions that would take all day to analyze and consider, so Adaar doesn’t.

 Having spent a decade or so in the south, and seeing life outside the Qun, he can definitely imagine how strange it all sounds to outsiders. He doesn’t know these people, but he knows he at least likes Varric. He’s treated him more like a regular boring person than anyone else has.

“You and me both,” Adaar says, which beckons a bark of laughter out of Varric, and he feels quite pleased with himself. After all, he thinks, someone is a stranger before they are a friend.

The Hinterlands is a warzone in every sense of the word. Mages and Templars at each other’s throats; roads and wilds littered with bodies from both sides and neither; refugees and civilians caught in the crossfire. Remnants of magic lingered in the air and despite the clearing being void of people it felt like stepping into a dense crowd coming down the hill out of the woods.

The ground is charred here, frozen here, and here lays a small albeit discouraging crater, accompanied by discarded weapons, limbs and the bodies they once attached to.

Adaar is no stranger to gruesome battlefields, but it has never been on this scale. And to think many of those fallen could very well be innocent, could very well never have raised a hand in their life, now pressed to kill or be killed… It makes an awful feeling twist in his gut.

Up ahead - up yet another hill - Inquisition soldiers are setting up camp. It’s a welcome sight because Adaar has definitely had enough hill climbing for the day, and all he wants to do is collapse onto his bedroll and dream of anything but endless lush, verdant woods. Maybe mountains. Or open water.

Meraad had been so excited to cross the Waking Sea. They almost fell overboard pointing out the fish swimming alongside the ship. Adaar had to grab them by the back of their coat and haul them back to prevent disaster. When Adaar had demanded to know why they were so committed to being a fool, they had laughed and said  _ the tide rises, the tide falls _ .

Adaar is sitting outside his tent, fingers interwoven and knuckles pressed firmly against his mouth, and thinking painfully, helplessly, of Meraad’s crooked smile as they awkwardly hurried down the hall in the Temple of Sacred Ashes for Adaar to never see them again.

Don’t dwell on it.

Solas suddenly approaches. He’s easy to tell apart from everyone else; his presence is so enveloping and deeply focused it’s almost difficult to notice anyone standing next to him. Adaar’s ear tilts towards the elf, then he remembers that looking at people is polite and turns his head, dropping his hands into his lap.

“Evening, Herald. Do you have a moment?” he asks.

Adaar nods and stands, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tightness of his back muscles. He hadn’t even realized it had become dusk, much less how long he’d just been sitting there.

“I’ve noticed you favor ice magic,” Solas remarks in his steady, calm voice. “Your power is remarkable, but, and do forgive my turn of phrase, it seems unrefined. As I understand mages receive no tutoring under the Qun.”

“That’s correct,” Adaar says. He doesn’t feel particularly embarrassed of this fact, mostly because he knows Solas isn’t expressing this with intent to scorn or shame. The man is a riddle in his intentions most of the time, but he always takes care to angle his tone in the precise manner he wants to convey. It’s easy to understand him, even if he doesn’t  _ understand _ him. “Most, if not all I do is self-taught. I was with a Dalish clan for a short while, and their Keeper taught me a few things, but that is all.”

Solas hums thoughtfully, a pensive expression over his face - but then again he always looks like that, lost in thought.

With an incline of his head, he says, “My knowledge of magic and the Fade is at your disposal, Herald. It is imperative to the fate of the world that you succeed. Power by itself is useless without the means of applying it skillfully and precisely, and I have the ability of teaching you such means, should you wish it.”

Adaar blinks at him, taken by surprise by his offer.

Solas dips his head again, “It is up to you.”

“That would be… appreciated, Solas,” Adaar says after a moment. “Thank you.”

Solas’ eyes glimmer with humor and he smiles. “Don’t thank me so soon,” he says, good-humored. “Until we know your limits, it could turn out disastrous.”

They leave the camp and find a wide, spacious field on a slight incline. The camp is still in view, but far enough away that any stray magic won’t cause any collateral damage. The Circles are gone, and so there is no need to hide away in the woods.

Solas gracefully turns on his heel, removing his staff from his back in an elegant flourish.

“Besides ice, what other elements do you use?” he asks.

“None,” Adaar says with a sigh. “Well, fire, I suppose - although it is sporadic and unpredictable. I can rarely summon it at will.”

“That’s understandable, considering,” Solas says, then:

“Magic is the manifestation of emotion, will, and thought. Such things affect the Fade, and mages are able pull that through the Veil into this world. Every feeling has an associated element, and that association changes between individuals, between situations. Anger, for example, can be as much a blazing inferno as the coldest blizzard.”

Solas makes a sweeping gesture with his hand. The way he speaks and carries himself paints a picture of his words - not in the same manner Varric does, but still captivating.

“Control over your magic means understanding and redirecting your emotions. This is why young mages are the most vulnerable. Children often have little control or understanding of themselves and what they feel, and if that immaturity persists into adulthood, they will remain dangerous.”

Adaar scoffs. “Are you saying I’m immature?” he says with an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Not at all,” Solas says easily. “If anything you are ignorant, and that is no fault of your own. Come.”

Adaar stands next to Solas.

“What do you feel when you summon your ice?” he asks. Adaar bites down the reflexive _ I don’t know _ , as that wouldn’t get them anywhere, and instead tries to actually think about what he feels.

“I- Necessity? It comes so easy to me I hardly think at all,” he says after a moment of fruitless introspection. “Survival instinct, I suppose.” Solas merely hums.

“And you pull the reflection of that from the Fade, and it manifests as ice,” Solas concludes. “Humor me for a moment, and try to turn this feeling into something different. Like fire, for instance.”

“I can’t change what I feel,” Adaar says.

Solas nods, “No, but you can change how it affects you. It is abstract; logic has no place in the Fade. There is nothing I can explain or tell you that will make sense of it.” An encouraging gesture with his hand. “Try.”

It seems ridiculous, or futile, or something along those lines, but Adaar closes his eyes to concentrate.

He takes a deep breath and  _ doesn’t _ picture lapping flames or heat, but thinks only of feelings. Survival is stark, instinct is a rapid, thoughtless thing imprinted into your very bones. Cold, sharp, quick. But then he considers it further; the instinct to guard your people, to protect those you care about. Necessity and survival all the same, but this wasn’t cold. Hot, encasing, quick.

He splays his fingers out before him, eyes still closed, and draws the feeling towards himself, centering it in his palm. It’s boiling and bright without being anger.

Then, steaming hot water begins pouring from his open hand.

Adaar opens his eyes. Water - not ice - like Katoh. It isn’t fire, but it’s-

“A step,” Solas says, smiling.

 

***

 

What Adaar expects from meeting a Chantry mother is everything but what he actually gets. Up until this point the Chantry has been ignoring him, and then condemning him, purely for his existence and what others claim about his existence.

Mother Giselle does not ignore him, and does not condemn him. Instead, she implores him to seek out the Chancellors and convince them to, if not see reason, then at least consider it. He tells her it’s a Fool’s Errand, but she insists it’s within his and the Inquisition’s interest to do so.

Her voice is pleasant, matronly, and the lilt of her Orlesian accent is almost lulling. He can’t tell if it’s the fog or if it’s just the way she speaks that makes it feel like he’s floating.

She speaks of faith, and the Maker, and  _ hope _ , and Adaar feels even more deprived of autonomy.

Adaar thanks her for her assistance, and leaves her to tend the refugees.

He sees Cassandra speaking to a group of soldiers with a grim expression, Varric has amassed a small crowd with one of his tales, and Solas is merely... observing. Adaar stands there at something of a loss. There is plenty to do in the Crossroads; mages and templars are still fighting, people are suffering, and he hasn’t a clue of where to start.

Perhaps he should return to Scout Harding and give her his report on the conversation with Mother Giselle, or maybe he could give it to a runner who could give it to Harding, or maybe-

“Herald of Andraste?”

Adaar looks up to see a man approaching clad in silver armor adorned with griffins; a Grey Warden. His scraggly hair is dark and complemented by a thick moustache and a short beard. The Warden looks slightly disheveled; there are dark reddish circles beneath his eyes and it seems he hasn’t had the time or energy to properly maintain the elegant curl of his moustache. An intricate black tattoo sits on his left cheek.

The Warden closes in, but then stops suddenly, eyes growing wide with disbelief. For a short stunned moment he is completely silent.

“ _ Adaar _ ?” he exclaims. “ _ You’re _ the Herald?”

Adaar remembers a campfire, and bright blue eyes blinking encouragement over a palmful of chocolates.

“Kilian,” Adaar greets. “Nice to see you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh shit am i right?
> 
> The amount i struggled with this chapter is atrocious. This is also probably gonna end up rly long. There’s gonna be Trespasser, too. GOT LOTS OF IDEAS. LOTS AND LOTS. OH BOY THE IDEAS, HOW WILL THEY FIT?
> 
> Shoutout to Chris for spontaneously saying “what if magic is just emotions” while playing DAI and opening up a well of lorebuilding


	2. War is crying out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wax seal is broken; it has already been opened. Adaar unfolds the letter and immediately recognizes Shokrakar’s bold handwriting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S ALIVE (it being my inspiration)
> 
> the self-indulgence is only going to get worse from here on out. Yes it took 84 years to update… I had a writer’s block and then work ate all my free time along with an inflammation in my wrists but here we are!
> 
> THANKS EVERYONE for your kudos and comments and for being so patient with my fickle ass. As usual, my soul is weeping with joy for all this love and support which ignites my horrid little fingers. This is fanfiction and game mechanics don’t limit me anymore i can do anything i want
> 
> chapter title from _Into the Darkness_ by The Phantoms

There are a few eyes upon them; sparing glances of curiosity, confirming that yes, that is indeed the Herald of Andraste of the new Inquisition. They don’t seem to dare look at him for too long, in fear that he will notice. Adaar has heard many shocked whispers of  _ oxman _ , and he’s sure he will hear many more to come.

Kilian, however, is staring openly while trying to parse this whole situation.

“Weren’t you with the Prickwater Serpents?” he asks slowly, brows furrowing to absurd levels as his puzzlement grows.

“I left,” he explains in the simplest terms.  _ Prickwater Serpents _ is pretty good. He wishes he’d thought of that.

Kilian straightens his slackened posture, adjusting the collar of the undershirt peeking out beneath his armor. “I- Well, yes, evidently so. Hm.” He strokes his moustache. “That was a pretty stupid question, huh?”

His brow smoothes out as the confusion is swiftly dropped, and Kilian settles his knuckles on his hips. “So, Adaar - or is Herald better? Is it your new name, now? I’m still not clear on how all that works.”

Adaar laughs softly. “Adaar is fine.”

“Right-o.” He clears his throat in a very theatrical manner, closed fist on his chest and everything, and adopts a very serious expression. “So, this Inquisition of yours. I’ve been on my own for a while, but I’ve seen what you people are doing. You’re helping, more than anyone else is. You’re making a difference and you’ve only just started out.”

“We intend to make a bigger difference,” Adaar affirms.

Kilian chuckles. “I don’t doubt it. You get things done. Anyway - I’m.. well, kind of at the end of my rope here, and I can go and quietly disappear, or I could dedicate myself to this, right now, and be a part of that difference.”

“You want to join the Inquisition?” Adaar tilts his head, a single ear flicking, quietly wondering what that means, being at the end of his rope. He thought Wardens were all solitary, keeping to themselves and their cause, and such.

Kilian nods, “In a nutshell.”

Adaar considers this for a moment. Kilian is a capable fighter, having seen it himself even if it were years ago. The Wardens were valuable in the Serpent’s efforts in clearing out the bandit-occupied fortress, and Kilian had been cooperative; friendly. If he’s anything like he was when they first met, however briefly, Adaar would be fortunate to count him among their numbers.

“We would be more than happy to have you, Kilian,” he says.

Just then, Cassandra joins them.

“I’ve spoken to Corporal Vale, Herald,” she says. “The Templars are camped somewhere along the west road, whilst the apostates have taken refuge deeper in the woods. If we deal with them, the crossroads will be safer.” There’s a brief pause as she regards Kilian. “Who is this?”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Kilian Ardwell, Grey Warden.” He bows comically deep, and Cassandra looks bewildered. He straightens up alarmingly fast, and says, “I’ve come to offer my support to the Inquisition.”

Cassandra blinks. “Then you should go to Haven. Speak with Commander Cullen, and-”

“Wait,”  Adaar interjects, and both pairs of eyes turn to him. “Kilian should travel with us, not just be part of the army.”

“Oh?” they say in unison. Kilian is smiling, Cassandra mostly looks bemused.

“We work well together,” Adaar offers in way of explanation.

“This Warden is someone from your past, then,” Cassandra concludes, and he confirms it with a nod.

She looks uncertain while she studies his face, lips drawn into the faintest frown. Adaar doesn’t know what she’s looking for - or perhaps  _ seeking _ is the more appropriate word - but whatever she finds in his expression has her dipping her head and saying, “Very well. I trust your judgement, and I cannot in good conscience dictate who should accompany you.”

“Excellent!” Kilian says. “So where do I put my stuff? I don’t really have any, but I’d like to know where to put it if I did.”

Cassandra, again, looks bewildered for a moment before replying, “We have a camp southeast of the crossroads, further up the hill.”

Kilian pivots at the waist, turning to look for the aforementioned hill. How he immediately knows what direction is southeast is lost on Adaar. “Great!” Kilian says, turning back to look at them with a smile. “Where are we going?”

“The west road,” Adaar says, and Cassandra looks to him like she didn’t quite expect him to reply. “To take out the rogue templars.”

“The sooner we put an end to this conflict, the better,” Kilian agrees.  “Lead the way, Herald.”

The pressure of being told to lead the way is tempered by Adaar’s gift of memory. Yesterday night he spent a considerable amount of time in camp pouring over several different maps of Redcliffe and the surrounding areas, and he has a very clear picture of the land in his head at this point.

The road west is a straightforward one, but Adaar has found plenty of shortcuts over hills and through throngs of trees. Somewhat unconventional, but they’re all travelling light enough that they still save time despite the more difficult terrain.

The templar encampment is more like a small fortress; the tents and supplies are surrounded by erected spike walls that create chokepoints all around the camp. That’s an advantage that can go both ways. If the chokepoint is held by Cassandra and Kilian, the templars will struggle to reach the rest of them who fight at range, but they will have the same problem with their archers.

Adaar flexes his hands, feeling mana simmering beneath his skin. “Cassandra, you go and draw their attention. Kilian will follow closely and try to flank them,” he says. The sound of weapons unsheathing immediately upon his voiced strategy is very gratifying; it gives him a rush. It feels good to be in command again - to have a manner of control over something. “Solas, focus on any archers you see, and Varric…”

He glances down at the dwarf, who looks at him expectantly with his beloved Bianca cradled in his hands. He’s so small, he’ll have an easy time avoiding notice between Cassandra, Kilian and two mages.

“Pick off the weak.”

Cassandra rolls her shoulders, bending at the knees and shifting her weight around to loosen up her body. Her face is pulled into a deep frown, eyes sharp and focused. “We are vastly outnumbered,” she says, scanning the camp. “We will have to tip the odds quickly in order to be successful.”

“Don’t worry,” Kilian says lightly, spinning his daggers in his hands. “Half of them won’t be standing by the time the rest realize what’s going on.”

“They won’t be expecting this much power in such small numbers,” Solas agrees, then smiles. “Have a little optimism, Seeker.”

“I shall endeavor to plot bloodshed with more enthusiasm in the future,” Cassandra says dryly.

“Enough,” Adaar says softly. “Everyone ready? Let’s get this over with.”

Everyone knows their role in the strategy, and it shows. Cassandra rushes in, shield raised and boasting, demanding the templars come and face the Maker’s justice. Kilian quietly follows close behind, a hidden flurry of daggers that proves fatal to the unaware.

Solas casts a barrier over the two of them, encasing them in a faint blue glow. Adaar raises his hands with every intention of drawing magic out of the ground and piercing the templars from beneath, but what instead happens is a blizzard rises from the grass. It’s very near out of control, threatening to spill out from the intended area of effect and obscuring the vision of the entire encampment.

Adaar grits his teeth as he tries to temper his magic, but it spills from him in erratic bursts; the wind rising in force, then falling, snow and ice pelting this way and that. He tells himself not to panic, it’ll just make it worse. Just breathe, don’t panic, and halt it.

With a deep inhale, the blizzard vanishes, and fortunately his companions don’t seem worse for wear - this time - and he decides to keep himself limited to spells on a smaller scale.

“Anyone else getting deja vu from this?” Kilian calls over the chaos. Adaar isn’t entirely sure what that is, so he cannot answer. “No? Just me?”

“Fighting templars is just Tuesday by now,” Varric comments as he fires a bolt into the narrow slit of a knight’s helmet.

“It’s always Tuesday,” Kilian muses loftily.

It’s like they’re speaking a different language.

The one benefit from the mage-templar war, if there are to be any, is that the templars have no access to lyrium thanks to abandoning the Chantry, and thus cannot do anything to suppress Adaar’s magic. He knows how to wield a blade decently enough, as Shokrakar had him learn how to just in case, but it’s hardly more than a last resort.

A templar rushes towards him, but even as Adaar is unarmed he still has the natural strength of his larger size and he surprises the knight by rushing forward and body slamming them. His hands seize their helmet and he sends the fury of the blizzard that still lingers in his hands straight into it. A quick burst, nothing sustained. Frost spreads over the surface, and judging by the snapping and cracking noises from within and the way the templar’s body slackens, he’s succeeded.

Cassandra draws her sword out of a templar’s chest with a noise of displeasure, having to place a foot on the body to have enough leverage to dislodge it. The templars by the west road, it would seem, are dealt with.

All that remains is the apostates.

The appropriately named Witchwood show signs of magic that are obvious even to those who have never seen it before. There are huge pillars of ice, still biting cold to the touch, rising out of the ground in menacing spikes. Some have templars trapped inside them, dead from either the cold, their apparent impalement, or their other wounds.

“The apostates have expended themselves,” Adaar observes, noticing the increasingly frequent cracks in the ice as they continue deeper into the woods.

“How can you tell?” Kilian asks.

“The pillars are incomplete, or faulty. Look.” He points to the heavily chipped top of one such pillar.

“The residual magic in the air is unstable, as well. It’s thicker in places, thinner in others. It is inconsistent; desperate, almost,” Solas says. “They’re depleting their mana without the means to recover it. Without the Circle, one is safe to assume they have little Lyrium, if any.”

“I’ve seen Adaar magic forth lots of stuff like this and be fine,” Kilian says, reaching out as if to touch one of them and then deciding perhaps he shouldn’t, fingers curling into his palm just before grazing the surface of the ice.

“The mana pool of Saarebas runs deep, and we are accustomed to expending it all at once, or in large quantities,” Adaar says. “Self-restraint isn’t a concept we readily practice.”

“The restraint in question is completely out of your hands, is it not?” Solas’ voice turns hard, and Adaar can practically feel the steel of his gaze on his back. Not directed at him personally, surely, but it’s not difficult to imagine what a mage like Solas would feel about the Qun.

“Was, and yes.”

Unbidden, vague blind memories crawl to the forefront of his mind. The oppressive presence of Arvaarad; the other Saarebas in his Kith; the sting of burning flesh in his nose; and the indescribable scent of that strange alchemical fog that he never saw, only heard of. He could sense people around him then as easily as he could see them now, but then Arvaraad would activate the suppressing collar and it would all disappear. He never wants to experience that again.

“Heads up,” Varric says suddenly, and the sheer baritone of his voice is enough to startle Adaar out of his thoughts. “Or down, in your case; there’s a cave up ahead with a big shiny  _ Do Not Enter _ sign.”

Up ahead there is, indeed, a cave, and the  _ Do Not Enter sign _ Varric is referring to is likely the magical barrier cast over the mouth of it.

“The barrier’s element is ice. A fire spell should do quick work of it,” Solas says, and the look he gives Adaar indicates he means more than he’s saying.  _ Try, _ echoes his voice, unspoken.

Adaar, in contrast to any previous attempts, decides  _ not  _ to think this time, of anything at all. He doesn’t close his eyes, or search his emotions with identifiers and analysis. He gathers feelings in the palm of his hand, and amongst all this non-thought, the world besides the barrier melts away, and even the glimmering frost ward seems out of focus. Nothing exists, and the Fade burns in his ears.

The mouth of the cave is suddenly charred black. The barrier is gone and what grass was still at the entrance has now been completely burned away, with bright embers gleaming in the ash and dirt.

“You don’t think that was a little overkill?” Varric says after a pause, and Adaar almost wishes he’d been aware of what he was doing just so he could know what he was talking about.

“I think it was brilliant,” Kilian says, brandishing his swords. “Suppose we should  _ pop in for a spell  _ and see if the apostates are home.”

 

Cassandra groans.

 

***

 

There is much yet to do in the hinterlands around Redcliffe, but with the mages and templars cleared out of the Crossroads it’s become safer for the refugees, and the Inquisition forces can handle what needs to be done without direct involvement from the Herald, for a time.

When this is all over and done with, Adaar will likely have to run cleanup on all of Thedas, sealing every remaining rift before retiring to a little hut in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere, raising sheep. Maybe he’ll learn how to spin wool. Knit sweaters.

He’s entertaining a brief fantasy about bottle-feeding tiny little lambs when he notices an amassing crowd outside Haven’s chantry. As he approaches it becomes clear that the Inquisition’s mages and templars are, of course, arguing. It looks as if it’s about to escalate into a proper fight when Commander Cullen suddenly intervenes before Adaar has a chance to, followed by the pompous Chancellor who was very adamant about - if not  _ executing _ Adaar - locking him up and throwing away the key.

When Chancellor Roderick is driven off by Cullen’s blasé dismissal of his opinions, Adaar can’t help a dry comment about the whole ordeal: “Don’t let anyone riot while we’re gone.”

Cullen smiles, strained, “The walls will be standing when you return. I hope.”

Adaar admires and appreciates the interesting meld of confidence and self-deprecating humor of their commander. He’s obviously experienced and comfortable with leadership; there’s no awkward stumbling and he easily assumes the respect of those under his command. Yet, he remains a person beneath all that hard work.

“Come,” Adaar says, steering for the chantry doors. “Let’s summon the others. We have news.”

The council of the Inquisition, of course, spends a considerable amount of time bickering about how to proceed. Adaar keeps himself out of the argument if only because this chantry and politicking stuff is way over his head. That is, until Lady Josephine explicitly asks his opinion on travelling to address the clerics himself, as Mother Giselle had suggested.

“Surely it can’t be that dangerous,” Adaar says. “A few frightened clerics?”

“Don’t underestimate the sway they have on the people,” Leliana cautions. “An angry mob will do you in just as quickly as a blade.”

“They would have to get close enough first,” he replies coolly. Leliana doesn’t respond to that, and their eyes are locked in silence for a small eternity until Cassandra steps forward and says, “I will go with him.”

And just like that, she takes charge of the situation. Even when Leliana tries to argue, she cuts her off with the bare fact that there is little else they presently  _ can _ do. They need help with the breach; more power, bigger armies, but as long as the chantry keeps speaking out against them, no one will dare ally with them.

“It is decided then,” Adaar says. “Cassandra and I will make for Val Royeaux as soon as the clerics have given their answer. If that’s all, I will be retiring for the evening.”

“As you were,” Cullen says with a nod. ”But before you go; there’s a letter for you, Herald, from the leader of your mercenary company.”

He hands it to him while he speaks. The wax seal is broken; it has already been opened. Adaar unfolds the letter and immediately recognizes Shokrakar’s bold handwriting. She writes about hearing he was dead, and then not, and not being paid yet, and demons, and some of their Kith making it back, but in all honesty he’s just glad to hear from her. She knows he’s (probably) alive. Which means, at the very core of it, word of the Inquisition has reached even the Valo-Kas.

“She’s asking for my help in finding those of our Kith who are still missing,” he tells the others, as if they haven’t already read the letter, then hesitates before adding, “If we have the resources to spare, I would... Like to.”

Cullen nods. “No one can blame you for that, Herald,” he says, so simple and straightforward in his sympathy, and looks down at the map. “They could be wounded or lost in the wilderness surrounding the valley. We can send out patrols to find any scattered Tal-Vashoth.”

Josephine pipes in, the end of her pen tapping absently against her cheek, “They could also be kept from travelling back to the Free Marches by agitated nobles unwilling to let them pass through their lands.” In a swift, elegant motion she sets the pen to her parchment, the tip hovering just above it, poised and ready to write the first draft of a letter. “We could negotiate passage.”

“Many of them were likely captured after the Conclave,” Leliana adds. “People are quick to turn the blame on qunari, whether or not they actually follow the Qun. Our agents can find them, and free them.”

Adaar sets his palms against the war table, staring down at the parchment and Shokrakar’s rigid, blocky letters. He wonders just how many of them survived, wonders if he should even dare to hope.

“Prioritize the imprisoned,” he says after a moment. “The others can figure it out, so long as they have their freedom. They’re good at that.” Then, “Thank you.”

“As you say, Herald,” Leliana says with a dip of the head. “I will send my agents immediately.”

 

***

 

Val Royeaux is blindingly beautiful.

Impossibly tall stone buildings in pure white and deep blue with ivy climbing all over them, turquoise roofs tiled like fish scales with golden eaves, spires of pure gold reflecting the sunlight with such brilliance Adaar can’t look at them without hurting his eyes - which isn’t difficult to accomplish, but alas. The air smells of flowers and water, and flocks of gulls fly overhead like dots in the sky, calling to each other.

The city is bustling with activity; gentlefolk and commoners alike wander the streets with and without entourages, bells are chiming from customers entering and leaving shops, and merchants are boasting wares at their stalls. Everyone is dressed in the height of Orlais fashion, to the extent that their economy allows, and Adaar feels vastly out of place in his reinforced coat and heavy boots.

It’s not that he wants to be extravagant or necessarily  _ fit in _ , he just dislikes scrutiny, and scrutinizing is the national Orlesian pastime.

“I might have been here before,” Adaar says, reading the vandalized plaque before some Andrastian statue (“Maferath's Pain... _ of a low doorway _ ”) and finding it oddly familiar.

This phrase tickles Varric remarkably. “ _ Might _ have been? You’d think Val Royeaux is a little more memorable than that.”

With a little smile, Adaar says, “I was very drunk.” Varric laughs.

Kilian is watching Orlesians walk by, staring at their masks with a distraught expression. “I don’t remember this being like that,” he says, inexplicably, and if any of them are curious as to what that could possibly mean, they do not ask.

An Inquisition agent steps out of the shadows of an alleyway behind a store and gives a sharp whistle, catching all of their attention. The party makes their way over to converge quietly in the shade of the awning which spans the building.

“My Lord Herald,” the agent says, bowing her head. “The Chantry mothers await you, but so do a great many templars.”

“There are Templars here?” Cassandra questions.

“I thought they abandoned the Chantry,” Kilian comments.

The agent nods with urgency. “The people seem to think the templars will protect them from the Inquisition. They’re gathering on the other side of the market.”

“Surely they will not risk a battle in the middle of the city?” Solas says.

“We shall see,” Adaar says. Having decided he’s heard enough, he heads towards the market. Behind him he can hear Cassandra instruct the agent to head to Haven immediately, just in case something were to happen.

The marketplace of any city is easily identified. There’s always people, always stalls, and merchants peddling their wares for as long as the sun remains in the sky.

The marketplace of Val Royeaux, in current circumstances, is different. There’s certainly people, but they are tightly packed into an enormous crowd, and stationary, not milling about the market grounds. Every head is turned toward the auction stage and instead of calling out bids, they’re voicing distress over the Inquisition and the Divine. Even the dullest would realize that’s where the clerics are gathered.

Adaar cuts through the crowd easily. People trip over themselves in their hurry to make way for him, eyes wide with fear as they exclaim “ _ it’s the Inquisition!” _ in small, shivering voices. Somewhere a woman shrieks, someone else demands to know why they murdered the Divine, and eventually they reach the stage.

When the clerics see him and address the crowd, he has to wonder at the fact that no matter where in the world you go - Par Vollen, Ferelden, Orlais - the priests will wear strange hats.

After stirring up anger by talking about the Divine’s death, and the loss the people felt at it, the cleric promptly declares Adaar a false prophet; that the Maker would never send a Qunari to aid them, and he sighs.

“I don’t recall naming myself a prophet,” Adaar mutters, growing more and more uncomfortable with this Herald thing. Mother Giselle claimed it was a symbol of hope, but right now it’s more trouble than it’s worth. Human society is endlessly contradictory, everyone pulling in different directions, no one working together for the sake of stubbornly holding onto the opinion of having the  _ right _ opinion. It’s at times like these where the Qun almost makes sense.

“You would rather sit and claim to know the will of your god while good people die?” Adaar has to shout to make himself heard over the crowd, but it’s not difficult with the building frustration. “Ignoring the Breach will not make it go away. What or who I am doesn’t matter; what matters is I can seal the rifts. If you want to help your people, help  _ us _ .”

Cassandra immediately backs him up, and he gets the feeling she would do so no matter what he said. “It’s true! The Inquisition seeks only to end this madness before it is too late!”

Adaar’s ear twitches as he picks up on the metal shuffling of armor, and it grows ever louder along with the gasps and murmurs of the amassed people. This is going downhill very quickly.

“It is already too late!” the cleric exclaims, sweeping her arm towards their right. The templars have arrived, and dread begins to form in Adaar’s gut. For once, it’d be nice if something just worked out. Again, he didn’t think to bring a sword, like an idiot. All he has besides magic is Shiovera’s dagger.

But before a fight can even begin to break out, a templar steps onto the stage and punches the cleric with enough force to knock her out, making the entire crowd gasp in shock. Even for humans, this is diving deep into nonsensical and counterintuitive. What will the templars gain from literally attacking the chantry? The world has gone mad, truly.

Another templar gets onto the stage, declaring to the knight accompanying the clerics that ‘she is beneath them’, and then promptly leaving. What an unpleasant man. Where is the angry mob threatening to do  _ this guy _ in? Seems unfair that only Adaar should have that privilege.

Cassandra, however, seems to know him, as she follows after him and attempts to get his attention only to get immediately shut down in a similarly rude fashion.

“Lord Seeker?” she questions, dumbfounded.

It would seem that the Templar order thinks itself superior to the people they were sworn to, judging from the dramatic speech the Lord Seeker unleashes upon them, declaring they have been failed by the Chantry, by the people; “The only destiny here that demands respect is  _ mine _ .”

“You’re not here for the people, you’re just here to intimidate us,” Adaar says with distaste.

The Lord Seeker sneers, “I came to see what frightens old women so, and to laugh.”

His taunt is almost embarrassing in how childish it is; as if Adaar would care about the opinion of some grandstanding human. His claims to superiority are pitiful; ‘ _ I demand to be taken seriously’. _ Cassandra commanded more respect with one sentence than this man has done with all of his. If he truly felt he needn’t prove himself, he wouldn’t have shown his unpleasant face in Val Royeaux to begin with.

“Laugh, then,” Adaar says with a gesture. “Be my guest.”   


Cassandra shoots him a look he cannot for the life of him decipher.

The Lord Seeker’s spiel continues, and ends with a pompous, “You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition, less than nothing.”

_ As have you _ , Adaar thinks, narrowing his eyes at the Lord Seeker’s retreating back.

Cassandra seems shocked at the templar’s behavior, but Adaar has rapidly grown accustomed to everything going wrong, and is more disappointed than surprised.

Just as quickly as the crowd has dispersed after the fiasco has someone else approached Adaar with a party invite from the First Enchanter. It’s decidedly more formal and  _ Orlesian _ than a simple “party”, but at its bare bones, that’s exactly what it is.

Adaar accepts the invite with a ‘ _ thank you’ _ to the messenger, takes a few steps, and almost loses a toe to an arrow that whizzes in from nowhere. As he bends down to investigate the letter attached to it - once his heart has settled, that is - he hears Kilian behind him click his tongue and say, “Is it better to assume there’s death around every corner, or to assume that the assumed death around every corner isn’t really gonna be death? Oh Maker.”

“Better safe than sorry, right? Assume death,” Varric helpfully offers.

The letter is…

It’s something. Written in first person, signed with the plural _ Friends of Red Jenny. _ Someone is after him, and they want to help, and to find this someone he has to go look for... red things.

Adaar sighs.

 

Halfway convinced he’s being toyed with, he manages to find a number of red things. Specifically, red handkerchiefs with more notes wrapped up in them. The notes, he finds, are incomplete; until you combine them, and suddenly he has this ‘Baddie’.

In the middle of nowhere in the middle of somewhere, Adaar leads the party down an alley, to another one, and another. Then there’s a courtyard, and mercenaries. Hostile mercenaries, who immediately recognize him and attack.

“Something is about to go wrong,” Adaar says when the last of them fall, flexing his frozen fingers. “Something always goes wrong.”

“ _ Blessed are the peacekeepers, the Champions of the just _ ,” Kilian begins halfheartedly praying.

“I believe the location we’re looking for is through there,” Cassandra says, pointing towards a tall gate. An ample place for things to go wrong.

He pushes open the gate only to narrowly dodge a fireball that comes hurling at him. Adaar stares in bewilderment at the pompous Orlesian posing regally in the moonlit courtyard as he starts rambling about being discovered and the Inquisition being weakened and who knows what.

“I don’t know who you are,” he says, confused. Is this the ‘ _ Baddie _ ’?

“You don’t fool me! I’m too important for this to be an accident!” the man exclaims, wrong on all fronts. “My efforts will survive in victories against you elsewhere.”

The chevalier standing by the door at the other end of the courtyard suddenly cries out, collapsing at the feet of a young elven woman with shaggy blond hair and the most garish pair of leggings he’s ever seen. She nocks an arrow, drawing the bowstring impressively far back, aiming straight for the Orlesian noble.

“Just say  _ what _ ,” she calls.

The noble, predictably, immediately exclaims, “What is the-” but is swiftly interrupted by an arrow lodging itself into the back of his open mouth. An impressive shot.

He drops to the ground in a pitiful heap of limbs, and the woman lets out a disgusted noise as she approaches to retrieve her arrow.

“Squishy one, but you heard me: ‘Just say what’. Rich tits always try for more than they deserve,” she says, not quite looking at Adaar, who’s having a rough time parsing what’s going on. She stoops down, curling her fingers around the arrow and pulling it out of the noble’s skull. “Bla bla  _ bla _ . Obey me, arrow in my face!”

The rest of Adaar’s party seem just as stunned.

“So you followed the notes well enough,” she says casually, like this is all very normal and understandable.

“Glad to see you’re…” She trails off, finally getting a good look at him, and her eyes widen as she realizes she has to crane her neck to look him in the eye. “You’re  _ big _ . From the north, yeah? Rivain or… north.”

Adaar is too baffled to say anything intelligent, so he says, “Par Vollen.”

The elf blinks. “What?”

“I’m from Par Vollen.”

“That’s north, isn’t it? Just like I said. Point is, you glow? You’re the Herald thingy.”

“I am at least one of those things,” Adaar says, and he cannot honestly say which.

“It’s all good innit?” Sera grins.

Sera’s mannerisms are so achingly familiar to him, and he realizes she reminds him of Katoh. When he demands to know why the dead noble’s reinforcements show up armed but without pants, and Sera laughs and declares  _ because no breeches _ , a cruel fist tightens around his heart. They would’ve gotten along splendidly.

He invites her to the Inquisition in part for her “spy” network, and in part because he’s so desperate for something familiar. She seems pleased enough to be part of it, despite a religious order being a vast step away from prodding shit-for-tits nobles.

Now he just needs to figure out what to do with all these breeches.   
  


Fortunately, his encounter with Sera only has him arriving  _ fashionably _ late to the soirée at Chateau de Ghislain.

A well-dressed man at the door announces his arrival, and little is more jarring than being referred to as  _ Master Adaar _ ; he’s never been a  _ Master  _ anything. The chateau is, predictably, filled with rich Orlesians. No matter where he turns his head he’s met with extravagant outfits, garish jewelry and strange hats. He’s fully aware of the decadence of the ‘fine-blooded’ humans, but what truly unnerves him is the masks.

The culture surrounding them is entirely different here, he knows, but he cannot divorce them from his own experience. He sees a mask and what runs through his head is the denial of identity, of personhood. It’s enough that he wants to leave immediately, but he’s here for a reason, and whoever  _ First Enchanter Lady Vivienne _ is, she has not approached him.

A couple of guests strike up conversation with him and are surprisingly polite, if not pleasant. The lady wonders about the ‘curious things’ that have been told of the Inquisition - and of him, in particular - and expresses delight when he informs that what she’s heard is most likely true. He’s wondering if he’s playing the notorious  _ Game _ right now when a surly man descends the stairs and proceeds to badmouth the Inquisition.

He goes on a spiel about how it’s nothing but a grab for power, but Adaar is scarcely paying as much attention to what he’s saying as the fact that he  _ is _ saying it.

“Is there a point to your complaining? I fail to see one,” Adaar says impatiently. Crossing one’s arms is a defensive mannerism, and so he doesn’t do it. He stands rigid, staring blankly at the disparaging noble. He’s sick and tired of causing offense by merit of simply existing.

The noble steps up to him, thrusting his tiny human finger at his chest, and says, “If you were a man of honor, you’d step outside and answer the charges.”

Adaar has barely processed that this man actually wants to fight him when he suddenly freezes in the middle of reaching for his sword, literally; frost is covering him from head to toe. Adaar is fairly certain he did not unconsciously set his magic loose on this disproportionately angry noble, and is confused for a moment before a grand voice speaks from the top of the stairs.

“My dear Marquis, how unkind of you to use such language in  _ my _ house, to  _ my _ guests.”

Every eye in the room turns towards the stairs to see a beautiful woman gracefully descend, dressed in exquisite robes of silver, white and grey. For one brief terrifying second, Adaar thinks he’s seeing a Tamassran before he realizes those aren’t horns atop her head, but a hat.

When she reaches the landing she all but glides over to Adaar and the frozen Marquis, and she speaks with such dignity and authority it’s no wonder the entire room is hanging onto her every word, “You know such rudeness is intolerable.”

The Marquis hurries to apologize, confirming that this woman is indeed Lady Vivienne.

“Whatever am I going to do with you, my dear?” she muses, reaching up to grasp his chin. Ordinarily a tender gesture, but Lady Vivienne’s hand drips with malice. She steps back, turning to face Adaar.

“My Lord, you are the wounded party in this unfortunate affair,” she says. “What would you have me do with this foolish, foolish man?”

“I am hardly wounded,” Adaar says, surprised to be addressed. “Do whatever you wish.”

What Lady Vivienne wishes to do is to publicly humiliate the Marquis, bringing to attention all his personal failures and shortcomings, most of which are trite high society concerns Adaar cannot begin to care about.

After the Marquis makes his rather sad departure, Lady Vivienne turns to Adaar once more.

“I’m delighted you could attend this little gathering,” she says with a disarmingly pleasant smile, a stark contrast to her demeanor just mere seconds ago. “I’ve so wanted to meet you.”

She leads him away from the party and its gaping guests to a more secluded spot in order to converse privately. Lady Vivienne expresses her desire to join the Inquisition, and Adaar sees little reason to deny her. She is influential, has sway in Orlesian politics - something Josephine would appreciate, surely - and powerful in her own right. After all, she completely immobilized a man with such precision he was unharmed and still able to speak.

Adaar doesn’t have to think about it too hard. “The Inquisition would be happy to have you, Lady Vivienne,” he says.

The First Enchanter is most pleased.

 

***

 

The snow-capped peaks of the Frostbacks are a welcome sight.

The ambient noises of the Inquisition (drilling soldiers, the forge workers, pilgrims arriving) have become familiar somehow, but they’re not comforting. Adaar walks through Haven weighed down with all that remains to do, the snapping and cracking of the Breach writhing heavily in his ears. He’s been granted a private quarters. A room all to himself, as he is the Herald of Andraste, after all, and that sets him apart from the rest.

He collapses face-first onto his bed with a grunt and remains still for a long moment. To his everlasting dismay and misfortune, of all the things he could miss in this forsaken world, it’s Ashaad Two’s snoring.

It used to keep him awake into the small hours. Now he’s certain if he heard just the one atrocious snort, he’d fall asleep immediately. But Ashaad isn’t here, and neither is his snoring, and despite his exhaustion Adaar is agonizingly awake.

After unsuccessfully attempting to nap, Adaar tracks down Sera to see how she’s settling in. He finds her at the rickety tavern where she gleefully implies unflattering things about his manhood, expresses her desire for things to go back to normal and, once more, remind him so much of Katoh he can hardly bear to stick around for the conversation (“It’s not that easy”, “Yes, it is”, “No, it isn’t”, “Yuh-uh”, “Nuh-uh”, then she blew a raspberry.)

When he turns the corner around the rickety-shack-turned-tavern, weighing the options of what to do in his mind, a stark bright presence makes its way towards him.

“Herald,” Cassandra greets, falling in step with him. “I’ve been searching for you.”

He really ought to be recognizing her by now.

“I was checking in on Sera,” he says. “What did you need?”

“We’re meeting in the Chantry to discuss what transpired in Val Royeaux, and what our next step should be.” Cassandra pushes open the doors to the Chantry, pausing to politely let Adaar enter first.

It seems everyone is far too eager for discussions to wait until the War Room, and Cullen begins the meeting right there in the hall:

“It’s a shame the templars have abandoned their senses as well as the capital.”

Adaar bites his cheeks very hard to remain outwardly unaffected by his ringing endorsement. With a quick inhale, he composes himself and says, “They’re not our only option.”

Everyone is of differing opinions regarding who to approach, but no one seems to be sure how to. Adaar is more than happy to leave the bickering up to them, and just go in whichever direction they point him in, like a shiny hound. Dog of Andraste.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts when Leliana approaches him, and he only just then notices everyone else has gone back to their duties.

“There is one other matter,” she says, and voices her concern about the Grey Wardens disappearing from both Fereldan and Orlais.”

“I have spoken to Kilian about this, but he assures he hasn’t seen another Warden in a long time. My agents have heard of another Warden in the Hinterlands by the name of Blackwall. Perhaps he will have answers.”

“I’ll look into it.” Adaar dips his head and is just about to excuse himself when Leliana holds up a hand to keep him. “Just one more thing. There is another letter from Shokrakar. I’m sure you would like to read it,” she says with a pleasant smile.

She holds up yet another opened letter with a wax seal lacking a stamp. He hesitates, but Leliana’s smile is reassuring and he takes it.

Shokrakar writes about their Kith coming back, Sata-Kas punching a gurn after two hours of fuming, and Katoh crawling out of a dragon’s mouth - probably not literally - and they still haven’t been paid. ‘ _ Most of them wounded. All of them angry. But alive. Alive is important.’  _ She doesn’t mention anyone else by name, but it’s enough.

Adaar’s hands are so far away, and he almost collapses from the relief. Katoh is alive.  _ Katoh is alive. _

He folds the letter against his chest, against his heart, and takes a breath like he’s been underwater for weeks and can finally, finally come up for air. He doesn’t have to not dwell on it anymore.

“Thank you for this,” he says, heavy with sincerity. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want to know exactly what Shokrakar’s letters say, look up the Contact with the Valo-Kas Mercenaries operation on the wiki. I merged the responses bc fuck u bioware (jk i love u)
> 
> This chapter feels so clunky but i guess you can’t rly avoid that when doing a game-to-writing adaptation and the entire plot is locked behind sidequests. It’s also a game of “Spot the Reference” and why did this become so LONGE
> 
> A huge big thank you to my gosebjörn (beatitupright) for beta-reading this chapter and making Kilian exist!!
> 
> Y’all know what’s next


	3. Crawl into this hole I've made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaar rears back without thinking. He is not Tal-Vashoth. This man is Ben-Hassrath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the pattern of my updates thus far is i manage to finish something every few months. I love hell. Started reading Dmitry Glukhovsky and now im inspired and armed with metaphors. It’s finally here, the moment you’ve all (maybe) been waiting for: Adaar meets the Iron Bull
> 
> chapter title iiiis from _Asleep in the Deep_ by Mastodon

Adaar wakes with his face buried in his bedding. His arm is dangling off the edge of the bed and his fingertips touch the cold stone floor, and an idle thought about how odd that is flutters through his mind, but he can’t say why. Though he usually has no issue getting out of bed, save for some select days, right now that’s the last thing he wants to do. He curls up beneath his furs and blankets, drawing his knees to his chest like a child, and keeps his eyes stubbornly shut, like he could by force of will command the sun to halt its journey across the sky, just so he could pretend a little longer.

Pretend he wasn’t here, at this time, in this place. Pretend the Breach didn’t exist (snapping, pulling, twisting), that the world wasn’t at the brink, that the fate of Thedas didn’t rest squarely on his shoulders. No one else has the mark. No one else can close the Breach, the task falls to him and him alone. He never wanted this.

But he can complain all he wants and the problem will persist. Pretending won’t make it go away. All he can do is grit his teeth and deal with it.

Adaar pulls his pillow close to him, squeezing it to his chest and curling in on himself even tighter. He takes a deep bracing breath. When he opens his eyes, he’s going to be the Herald. When he opens his eyes, he’s going to get out of bed, get dressed, eat as much breakfast as his appetite allows, then figure out what needs to be done and do it.

If Katoh was here, by now she would yank off his covers and declare ‘ _ Your allotted sad time is up _ ’ and then invite him to play cards, or say there’s a new job, or she’ll make up some scenario she needs his help with, anything to get him up and around and doing things. Thinking about Katoh forms a painful iron ball in his throat, not smooth but jagged so that it tears up the tissue and muscles surrounding it.

_ If I seal the Breach, maybe I can go home _ , he thinks, rolling onto his back - his eyes are still closed, because he’s not ready to be the Herald yet. Home to Valo-Kas; to Katoh, and Meraad, and Ashaad Two, Sata-Kas, Sataa, and Shokrakar. After all, home isn’t where he was. It was who he was with. He vaguely recalls telling Cassandra that yesterday, when they spoke about where he was from.

He said that while Par Vollen at first had been home, he soon found it wasn’t home at all. She said she feels the same way about Nevarra, and Adaar was pleased to find common ground with her. It still feels like she’s keeping him at an arm’s length - he can respect that, whatever her reasons are - but their relationship is a lot less tense. Varric and Solas are easy to get along with, and Kilian is Kilian. Maybe it’ll be alright. Maybe this can be home, too, eventually. If he managed to wrangle his heart, will it to settle somewhere else, these people could be home.

He opens his eyes, and he is the Herald.

The Herald is dressed in a sturdy leather coat, reinforced on the inside with extra padding for warmth and protection. His boots reach just above his knee and sport a ludicrous amount of buckles to keep them in place and remain supportive. The Herald braids his hair all the way to the ends, where he secures the braid with two strings and a metal clasp on top of them. The clasp is plain, and a dull iron, and Adaar thinks he might like it in gold filigree.

Adaar looks into the tall mirror by his bedside, and the Herald looks back at him. Tall, grim-faced, and broad shouldered. He sets his expression into a slight frown, and he manages to add ‘imposing’ as well. He can barely recognize himself, and he doesn’t know if he can attest that to the fog, or something else that is even further out of his hands. Before his reflection can become too much of a stranger, he covers the mirror with a blanket and heads out.

Adaar’s quarters are situated within the Chantry, because as Andraste’s Herald it would only be logical for him to reside within the Maker’s house, and after many empty corridors whose only semblance of life are the lit candles along the walls he reaches the main chamber.

Dawn’s gentle sunlight filters through the facets of the stained glass window above the entrance, bathing the chamber in hues of red, orange and yellow. The lit sconces on the walls cast their own dancing light on the walls and floors.  There’s a few Chantry sisters silently moving around, gingerly placing lit incense in beautiful metal burners, kneeling in prayer before icons of Andraste, and quietly singing their favorite passages from the Chant.

But they are not praying alone; Kilian is standing before a statue of a cloaked woman (presumably Andraste) with his head bowed and hands clasped before him. Adaar is glad to see him, as he would like a word with him, but he doesn’t want to disturb him and thus he waits until his prayer is finished. Adaar doesn’t have to wait long until Kilian opens his eyes, notices him in his peripheral, and immediately turns to him with a smile.

“Adaar! Good morning,” he greets. Then, with a somewhat cheeky tilt of the head, he adds, “Or is it just morning?”

Adaar doesn’t quite understand what he means, but dips his head politely. “Good morning, Kilian. I wanted a word with you.”

“Just the one?” Kilian says, his smile growing wider and subsequently increasing Adaar’s heart rate. He’d forgotten how disarmingly charming the Warden is - no, that’s a lie, he remembers very clearly how charming he is. He’d simply tried to distract himself from that fact, perhaps in the name of professionalism, or in the name of focusing on the mission, or perhaps finding someone attractive was still a little frightening.

Adaar clears his throat. “Do you know a Warden by the name of Blackwall?”

“Blackwall. A Warden named Blackwall. Hmm…” Kilian scratches his beard, the noise a light crackle, and draws his lips into a thoughtful pout as he ponders the name. “Sounds familiar, but doesn’t ring any bells. Perhaps it’s a case of ‘heard never met’, as it usually is with Wardens.”

Adaar tilts his head. “Really? He’s been seen in Ferelden.”

“Not by me,” Kilian says with a shrug.

“Ah,” Adaar says. It’s a shame, it would have made things easier. “Thank you, anyway.”

But Adaar doesn’t leave when the conversation ends, for another one sits on the tip of his tongue. A moment of hesitation passes, and Kilian’s bright eyes are wide and attentive as he curiously watches Adaar’s lingering.

“Earlier, you mentioned being at the end of your rope,” Adaar begins, uncertain. “What did you mean?”

The openness of Kilian’s expression falls a little, dulling the glint in his eyes. “Ah. Was wondering if you’d ask about that,” he says, and the chipper tone has all but vanished from his voice, as if it had never been there. Adaar regrets asking about it. “To make things simple; I’m dying.”

Adaar doesn’t react outwardly, mostly because inwardly he doesn’t know how to. Is he sick? Kilian looks so healthy… he doesn’t understand at all.

Baffled, he asks, “You’re.. dying?”

“Yes, well, not quite,” Kilian clarifies, adding to the confusion. Noting the look on Adaar’s face, which is the very manifestation of being lost, he sighs and explains, “Okay, so when you become a Warden you bind yourself to the Blight; you’re corrupted. We have this ritual...”

“...Anyway, you get these awful nightmares - they’re most intense during a Blight, awful stuff - and twenty or so years later they get even worse, and then you hear the Calling.”

“It’s like a song you can’t get out of your head, but it’s real, lurking beneath everything else. It’s a sign you’re succumbing to the Blight within you, and usually that’s when you head off to the Deep Roads for one final hurrah.”

Kilian gives a half enthusiastic gesture at ‘final’ - raising a flourish of a fist into the air - but the subject matter and his tone of voice makes it macabre.

Adaar shifts his weight, wrestling with a lot of feelings. Each of them shoves their way to the surface to immediately dip down and make way for another in a dizzying clamor. “And you decided not to,” he says, catching his breath.

“Yes,” Kilian confirms, and attempts to summon a lighter tone, his usual flash of humor. “I’d much rather die fighting magic holes than darkspawn. There’s more people around. And fresh air! Have you ever been to the Deep Roads? They’re ghastly.”

Both the Herald and Adaar are at a loss for words. “I.. I’m sorry.”

Does he hug him? What is appropriate in terms of comforting? Everyone he’s lost before has been gone in the blink of an eye. He’s never looked at someone and known that even while he can speak to them tomorrow, the day after that, and after that, there’s a certainty to their end. There’s no maybe now, maybe then, maybe never.

“It’s weird, though. I figured I’d have at least ten more years to go before my Calling,” Kilian comments idly. “My extraordinarily bad luck strikes again. At least I’ll join the Maker looking as handsome as ever.”

There’s a brief lull in the conversation, and in that short break Kilian seems to pick himself all the way back up. His expression is open once more, his impeccable thick moustache a little off-kilter from the slight turn of his mouth as he speaks again.

“Hey, tell you what. I can go chat with Blackwall for you,” he says. “Wardens can sense each other. I’ll sniff him out in a heartbeat.”

Not wanting to give Kilian the impression that he suddenly thinks he’s incapable, because of the Calling, Adaar gratefully accepts his offer. It’s, at least, one less thing for him to personally worry about, and then he decides to force this frightening Calling from his mind. What matters is what needs to be done today, not what might happen tomorrow.

The moment Adaar leaves the chantry and blinks the sun out of his eyes he spots an unfamiliar face; a man in bulky armor who’s looking ten ways frustrated and shifting around like he’s trying to catch the eye of someone who isn’t busy - which is nigh impossible at this hour of day; everything needs to get done at once. Adaar isn’t busy, he’s just heading to get breakfast, and his leisurely walking has him looking rather unoccupied.

As soon as the soldier spots him he makes his way over.

“Excuse me, I’ve got a message for the Inquisition, but I’m having a hard time getting anyone to talk to me,” he says, and Adaar can guess at the reason why that is right away. His accent is Tevinter.

“I’m talking to you,” he replies easily, and the soldier seems a little taken aback for a moment but recovers quickly. In the far recesses of his mind, Shiovera teases him about his  _ pretty voice, _ or perhaps it’s  _ his _ Qunari accent, or both. “Who are you?”

The soldiers straightens up and speaks like he’s been waiting to say it all day. “Cremisius Aclassi, with the Bull’s Chargers mercenary company. We work mostly out of Orlais and Nevarra.”

_ Bull’s Chargers _ sounds familiar, but where Adaar has heard it he can’t remember. Shokrakar wasn’t all that concerned about rival companies, and by extension no one else was. Except for the Blackwater Serpents; everyone made sure to crack jokes at Captain Tully’s expense whenever possible, preferably with Adaar within earshot.

“We got word of some Tevinter mercenaries gathering out on the Storm Coast. My company commander, Iron Bull, offers the information free of charge”

Oh no, not another  _ Iron _ .

“If you’d like to see what the Bull’s Chargers can do for the Inquisition, meet us there and watch us work.”

The Storm Coast is quite a ways away for a job interview. “Tell me about Iron Bull,” Adaar says. What the command is like, not to mention what their soldiers think of them, can quickly let him parse whether the journey to the coast is worth it or not.

“He’s Qunari, like you. Big guy, got the horns.” Cremisius gestures toward his own head, though it’s not as if Adaar needs any clarification on where horns grow. “He leads from the front, he pays well, and he’s a lot smarter than the last bastard I worked for.”

Four traits that are vastly different from any other  _ Iron Whatsits _ Adaar has encountered previously, and he can’t say he’s not tempted to have another Tal-Vashoth around. He’d feel less awkwardly huge.

But that’s not all; Cremisius continues his increasingly lucrative sales’ pitch, “Best of all, he’s professional. We accept contracts with whoever makes the first real offer.” Then, as if Adaar wasn’t already convinced, he adds, “You’re the first time he’s gone out of his way to pick a side.”

There has to be a catch. “Why come to us?” Adaar asks.

“Iron Bull wants to work for the Inquisition. He thinks you’re doing good work.”

Such a simple reason. Adaar could do with a little more simple. Surely the others wouldn’t mind.

“Return to your commander. Tell him to expect the Inquisition soon. I look forward to meeting this Iron Bull.”

Cremisius’ firm, serious face breaks into a grin and he puffs out his chest and squares his shoulders. “We’re the best you’ll find,” he says proudly. “You’ll see.”

 

***

 

The Storm Coast, in living up to its name, is miserable. It’s less raining and more someone sitting on the clouds, cruelly dumping cold buckets of water onto everyone and anyone unfortunate enough to stand below. It’s miserable enough that even should you find shelter beneath canopies or tents, the wind will throw the rain into your face from the sides. Adaar had almost forgotten what it is exactly that gives Ferelden’s climate its disastrous reputation. The southern parts are moderately temperate, and up in the frostbacks where Haven lies it’s consistently cold. But as you travel north, the cold southern temperatures meet the hotter north, and what results is large, dark, angry clouds ready to unleash their cold fury on the world, striking the earth with tendrils of lightning and drenching you to the bone.

Adaar’s coat doesn’t stand a chance.

He’s wet in every place a person can be wet. His braid is like a flail with the weight of the water it’s absorbed. Water drips into his eyes and blurs his vision and it’s at times like these he’s glad that he’s learned how to navigate the world without it. Cassandra seems unperturbed by the terrible weather, but she has a steel facade that very little can break through; Sera is audibly swearing at regular intervals, and her shoes give an atrocious wet squelching noise at every step which summons a giggle out of her every now and then; Solas is quiet, as restrained as ever, and Adaar suspects it’s because he’s encased himself in a skin-tight magical barrier that repels the rain, without sharing with the class.

It’s regrettable that Kilian isn’t here, but he’s in the Fereldan hinterlands searching for Blackwall along with Varric and Vivienne. Though, in all honesty, Adaar doubts that even he could lift any spirits in the face of all this. Perhaps the truth is he’d simply just like his company.

Adaar wipes his wet face with his wet sleeve, trying to descend the slippery hill of rocks and pebbles that takes them towards the beach, and, somehow, he can hear the clash of metal and the tell-tale cries of battle over the roar of the wind.

Adaar breaks into a jog, and his party wordlessly follow. The rise of a hill falls away, no longer concealing their right, opening to the breach proper and revealing the struggle that has been getting progressively louder. The cold rain is no longer an opposing force; Adaar welcomes it into him, feels it sink into his skin and traverse through his veins, and from within he dissolves from the physical reality and exists elsewhere, somehow else, and suddenly he can feel bodies around him.

When he returns from the Fade, spreading his arms wide and sending an explosion of ice bolts into anyone with a three-pointed hood, he hears someone shout a startled “Holy Fuck!”, followed immediately by Cremisius yelling “It’s the Herald!” with a tone that implies, without saying it,  _ shape up. _ But it’s not as if they need any heads up in order to make an impression when their potential employer has suddenly manifested in their midst.

It’s chaos; explosions are going off in small bursts, disorienting the Tevinter mercenaries and encasing the battlefield in a film of smoke, the Bull’s Chargers are well coordinated and obviously accustomed to working together, and Adaar can even feel magic that is not his own. Then, at the center of it all, is their commander cutting down men with brutal efficiency.

The rest of Adaar’s squad catches up just as the last Tevinter falls, and as if the skirmish was the cause of the sky’s fury, the weather settles into a light trickle of rain.

“Coulda saved some for the rest of us!” Sera complains, pelting the Herald with an insignificant pebble which bounces noiselessly off his back, to which all Adaar has to say is, “I’m sorry you’re so slow.”

Then, the commander of the Bull’s Chargers approaches him, arms wide and _ laughing _ .

Iron Bull is.. Well, he’s massive. He’s even bigger than Ashaad Two, which Adaar didn’t think was physically possible, in every sense of the word. Height, bulk, horns,  _ everything _ is bigger. Ashaad would be so distraught. The greataxe he wields looks appropriately sized in his hands, but let a human hold it and it’s certain to be as large as them.

“Oh, the Chantry must _ love _ you,” he says, which is likely what he found so funny.

“ _ I hear you _ ,” Adaar greets, and how easily he slips into Qunlat makes him almost sad. He’s spoken so little of it, lately. There’s been no one around to understand it. The Valo-Kas had spoken a mix of Qunlat and Common. Some words and phrases had no equivalent in the other language, and sometimes it was just more comfortable to say certain things in certain languages - and Katoh had tried to horrendously suggest names for it (Comlat and Qumon, among others). “ _ I can barely keep them off of me _ .”

Iron Bull laughs, delighted. “ _ I have a similar problem. Must be the horns.  _ But let’s keep the Qunlat to a minimum, yeah? It makes the boys nervous.”

“ _ That is usually the intention _ ,” Adaar says, determinedly not in Common. But it’d be beneficial for the Chargers to trust him, so he complies. “You want to work for us?”

“Absolutely.” With a little jerk of the head as an indication to follow, Iron Bull walks over to a hefty rock and sits down on it. Adaar, unwilling to let the stone, ground, or what have you steal what little body heat he has left, elects to remain standing.

Iron Bull has scarcely opened his mouth to begin discussing the terms of employment when his Lieutenant approaches to announce the throat cutters have finished their gruesome task. To which Iron bull gracefully insults his Tevinter heritage with a tactful, “No offense, Krem.”

Cremisius barely even reacts, and as he makes to leave he gives a ribbing of his own, “None taken. ‘Least a bastard knows his mother. Puts him one up on you Qunari, right?”

Adaar snorts - he can’t help it, it’s funny, and indisputable - and Iron Bull looks at him with a poised brow, looking amused. Adaar clears his throat awkwardly and stuffs away what little of a grin there is.  _ You’re representing the Inquisition _ , he tells himself.  _ You’re the Herald. Be professional. _

“Right, so. Herald of Andraste,” Iron Bull says, directing his attention to Adaar once more. “That was quite the entrance, by the way. Rocky nearly crapped himself. You always that flashy?”

“It catches people off guard,” Adaar says with a swell of pride. It’s a little embarrassing, how he wants to impress the Iron Bull. “I have plenty of time to attack during the time it takes for them to regain composure, if at all.”

“Not just to look cool?”

He smiles, “Maybe a little.”

Iron bull laughs, “That’s what I thought.”

They spend a moment discussing the specifics of the Chargers’ capabilities, the terms of the contract, how Iron Bull will join Adaar’s personal force.

Despite his initial misgivings, Adaar feels comfortable around Iron Bull right away. He would’ve fit right in with the Valo-Kas. He’s a big personality (along with just being big), and Adaar can picture him striking up a friendly rivalry with Ashaad Two, teasing Shokrakar to see what happens, acquiescing to throwing Katoh like a javelin to hear her shriek of delight as she goes.

Adaar is a breath away from hiring the Chargers when Iron Bull suddenly stands and walks a few paces.

“There’s something else,” he says. “And I’m just going to be straight up with you; I’m with the Ben-Hassrath. They’ve heard about the Breach, and they’ve ordered me to get close to the people in charge and report back on the situation.”

Adaar rears back without thinking. He is not Tal-Vashoth.  _ This man is Ben-Hassrath. _

“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of,” Iron Bull says with a sigh. “Look, I’m not here to hunt you down or anything. My people just want to keep an eye on what’s going on. I’ll send them enough info to keep them happy, and in return you’ll get full access to the reports I receive in turn. That alright with you?”

Adaar opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. He breathes in, works his jaw, then shakes his head trying to will away the tingling numbness crawling up his arms, the chill in his fingers that isn’t because of the wind and rain.

“Let- Let me get this straight,” he stammers, wrangling his useless tongue and pinching the bridge of his nose. If he digs his knuckles into his eyes he doesn’t have to look at Iron Bull, and the way he’s  _ watching  _ him. “You, a Ben-Hassrath, is asking me, a Tal-Vashoth, if it’s feasible that you share your secret spy network with the southern organization I’m a part of, in return for agreeing to let you report on us. You’re a  _ Qunari spy _ and you just…” He makes a baffled gesture with his hand. “ _ told _ me?”

“Yep,” Iron Bull says. “That Breach is bad news, and if you’re trying to stop it then I will stand with you, regardless of what I am, and what you are.”

Adaar can’t tell if he’s toying with him. “You could have kept it secret.”

“From something called _ the Inquisition _ ?” Iron Bull laughs, and he’s so infuriatingly relaxed, like none of this is a big deal. “I would’ve been found out sooner or later. Figured it’d be better you hear it from me straight.”

Adaar exhales sharply, clenching and unclenching his fists. He should be glad, really. He’s had the good fortune to not run into Ben-Hassrath before. There was that Arvaraad and his Kith, when Aban died, but never Ben-Hassrath agents. What kind of ridiculous joke has his life become, that when he finally  _ does _ happen upon one it’s all “Hey, I’m a Qunari spy, let me help you fix this end of the world business” and then that’s supposed to be that.

Iron Bull couldn’t just be Tal-Vashoth. Things can never just  _ be simple _ . There’s always a catch.

He whirls around, walks a few paces, pauses, then turns again with a finger pointing accusingly at Iron Bull.

“You will run your reports by Leliana. You send  _ nothing  _ she doesn’t approve,” he seethes, then a sharp warning, “Don’t make me regret this, Qunari.”

 

***

 

The Bull’s Chargers do not travel with the Herald.

They take the journey close to the frostbacks, on the opposite side of Lake Calenhad, whilst Adaar and his squad head for Redcliffe. At the Hinterlands Crossroads, they meet with Kilian and his squad where he cheerfully reports that Blackwall has been located.

“Just like me, he didn’t know anything about the missing Wardens,” he says, standing at the edge of camp with Adaar. “Did say he wanted to join up, though, so I sent him to Haven. Was that alright? I hope that’s alright.”

Adaar smiles faintly, squeezing his own hands tightly where they rest folded at the small of his back to prevent them from fiddling with stuff; such as the hem of his sleeve, or his braid.

“That’s alright,” he reassures. “It’s good. We could always use more people. Thank you, Kilian, again.”

“Anytime, Adaar,” Kilian says easily, and Adaar’s rib cage shrinks at an alarming rate and could not possibly house his beating heart. With a respectful dip of the head, Kilian then leaves Adaar to his thoughts, but not before pausing after a few steps.

“Though, there was something a little odd about him,” he says airily. Then he shrugs, “But then again, who isn’t a little odd?”

 

Getting the the town of Redcliffe from the Crossroads is very straightforward, but what brings it all to a puzzling halt is the Fade rift just outside the gate. Ordinarily it was just a matter of weakening its demons and then sealing it, but in some areas it felt as if he was moving in a dream, his movements sluggish and tired, and in others as if he moved too fast than he ought to. Neither Vivienne or Solas had an explanation for this phenomenon, theorizing the rift was somehow altering the normal passage of time around itself.

What made things stranger, still, was the Inquisition agent reporting that no one in Redcliffe was expecting the Inquisition.

The party draws eyes, naturally, because even if no one knew who the Herald is, a group made up of every known race in Thedas making their way through town is bound to grab the stunned attention of anyone around. They reach the tavern, and after a very confusing conversation with Grand Enchanter Fiona where she claims to never have been to Val Royeaux in recent time, nor has she spoken to Adaar, the prime suspect of all this oddity arrives.

Magister Alexius’ name has been on everyone’s lips since their arrival, and it’s beyond strange how he seems to have had a finger in Adaar’s pie before he even possibly  _ could _ have had a finger in it. And Fiona’s ignorance of the situation at hand seems genuine, and thus everything makes even less sense.

The Tevinter mage gives a friendly welcome, and apologizes for his delay.

“The southerns mages are under my command. And you are the survivor, yes? The one from the Fade?” he says, then, subtly, his tone turns into something severe, like a cloud blotting out the sun, or a shadow beneath the surface of the water: “Interesting...”

An inkling of doubt, beyond the ludicrous suspect of all this, settles in the pit of Adaar’s gut. Something is very wrong here, and his instincts are urging him to get out, to get away from Alexius as soon as possible.

They sit down to negotiate, but they’ve barely traded pleasantries before Alexius’ son stumbles straight into Adaar’s lap, visibly trembling and out of breath. He feels a parchment press into his hand, but Adaar says nothing of it and helps Felix to his feet, not willing to let go of the young man for fear that he’ll collapse again.

“My Lord,” Felix gasps, clinging to Adaar’s coat with a grip so tight his knuckles are stark white, and Adaar quickly realizes it’s all an act. Felix knows something about Alexius that he can’t even relay in front of him; his own father. “I’m so sorry. Please… Please forgive me.”

“Felix!” Alexius is upon him in a second, pulling him away from Adaar. He grabs his face, looking into his eyes and feeling his forehead. What’s puzzling is his concern seems genuine. “Are you alright?"

In a short flurry of events, Felix has usurped all of Alexius’ attention, and the Magister hurriedly excuses himself, declaring that this business will have to conclude at a later date as he has to tend to his son, who evidently is severely ill. When they’ve gone, Adaar finally looks at the note that was pressed into his hand as his party gathers around him.

“Come to the Chantry, you are in danger,” he reads.

“How delightfully ominous!” Kilian says, trying to peek at the note around Adaar’s shoulder (because no way is he going to peek over it).

“It might be a trap,” Adaar says, unable to shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong, and he is, indeed, in great danger.

“Perhaps, but I think it’s one worth springing,” Solas says. “This Alexius is hiding something.”

“No shit, Chuckles,” Varric says, who is merely standing there as Adaar is far too tall for him to even dream of glimpsing the note. “He’s practically oozing evil. He’s so Tevinter it hurts.”

The others discuss the matter around him, Cassandra says something pragmatic, Vivienne gives a comment in her dignified drawl, but Adaar is not listening. If he’d have to venture a guess, it would seem that Felix would await him in the Chantry, but how he would slip away from his doting father, he hadn’t the faintest.

Upon closer examination, Adaar notices how utterly flawless the penmanship is. Each dip and curve is done so meticulously you’d almost think it was printed, if not for the fact that the letters tilted diagonally across the page, as if the parchment had been held slightly sideways, more like a rhombus.

“Cassandra, Kilian, and Varric,” Adaar says, and the discussion quiets down when the Herald speaks up in that commanding tone. “You will come with me to the Chantry. I want the rest of you on the outside, as lookouts and reinforcements, but don’t make it obvious.”

The group gives their agreement, and they all leave the tavern.

It’s all so strange. Redcliffe looks like any other village - excepting the vast amount of anxious mages lingering about, of course - and yet there’s this feeling of trepidation in the air. As if in that clear blue sky above them lies a storm, hidden from the naked eye, pregnant with doom that it secretly wants to unleash. It’s not the Breach, because Adaar doesn’t feel this way in Haven, which is so much closer to it. No, this malicious anticipation is concentrated in Redcliffe.

Adaar hesitates in front of the Chantry. He really has no idea whatsoever what to expect once he opens that door. A trap? A benefactor? With a steeling inhale, he pushes open the doors.

Not two steps into the building does the Mark spark, sending sharp, burning sensations through his nerves all the way to his forearm. Further ahead, an impeccably dressed mage sweeps his staff overhead in a wide arch, bringing it down on top of a demon which crumbles with an ear-splitting shriek that withers into an echo and then a whisper as it slithers back through the rift in the center of the room.

The mage expertly twirls his staff into a defensive stance behind his back, then turns to face them.

“Good! You’re finally here!” he says gregariously, in a posh Tevinter accent. “Now help me close this, would you?”

As if on cue, with a resounding bone-like snapping, three shades barrel out of the rift, writhing on the floor as the physical reality twists their forms beyond comprehension. You can identify claws, and small beady eyes, more of them than there should be, and not much else. Confused by this unmoving, unbending realm they’ve found themselves in, the shades lash out at the nearest mortal they see; the Herald, and his brilliantly glowing Mark.

The Tevinter mage raises his staff overhead and spins it like a wheel, slamming it down on the ground, sending waves of blue light from it like rings on water that climb up the legs of Adaar and his companions, and encase them in a skin-tight protective barrier.

The shades’ claws strike him, but do not cause harm, and Adaar propels himself back just as Cassandra throws herself in his place, shield raised in challenge. A bolt lodges itself into one of the shades’ little eyes, and it shrieks terribly as it crumbles on itself, twisting in ways that bodies shouldn’t twist, before rushing at Varric in a rage.

Varric, understandably, mutters “Well, shit,” as he hurries to reload Bianca. He fires another bolt, and the shade staggers but doesn’t stop, but just before it is upon the dwarf it freezes. With a wet crack, the tip of a dagger protrudes out of what might have been its chest, and it twitches once, twice, before contorting backwards and vanishing back to the Fade.

“You alright?” Kilian asks, decidedly not wanting to think too much about how weird demons are.

“More than I would’ve been,” Varric says. “Andraste’s tits.”

In the corner of his eye, Adaar sees the Tevinter mage beat down another demon, whilst Cassandra thrusts her sword into the head of another demon, frowning at the bloodcurdling gurgle it lets out. The rift has to be closed, but once again he struggles to move. Everything around him is moving briskly, but he himself can hardly move his legs.

“ _ Vashedan _ , let me go!” he grunts at whatever is holding him back, and his voice sounds strange to him. Every syllable leaves his throat so slowly, he feels like he’s been drugged despite that his head is clear. He throws out his left hand towards the rift. It flares painfully, his hand ceasing to be for a short eternity, and it is only the Mark, and the rift cracks and snaps and, finally, closes.

With the rift sealed, the Chantry falls deceptively quiet, and Adaar soon finds he can move normally again. As everyone catches their bearings after the brief fight, the Tevinter mage turns from his enthralled consideration of the spot in the air where the rift previously had hovered.

“Fascinating!” he says, his eyes sparkling as he approaches Adaar. “How does that work, exactly?”

A little taken aback by the question, Adaar can hardly formulate that he doesn’t know when the man chuckles.

“You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and boom! Rift closes.”

Adaar blinks. “Something like that,” he says, then, “Who are you?”

The mage looks struck for a moment, and then his face breaks into a handsome smile.

“Getting ahead of myself again, I see,” he says, reigning in his excitement. And with a most gracious bow, he gives his theatrical introduction, “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

Adaar’s first impression of Dorian Pavus is that he’s incredible charming, but he doesn’t dare yet decide if it’s an act of manipulation or not. He speaks and moves as if he’s putting on a show, and Adaar is distinctly reminded of the extravagant courting displays he’d see in the beautiful birds that lived in the jungles of Par vollen; singing and dancing and showing off their brilliant plumage.

However, Adaar’s distrust lightly dips into trust as the conversation goes on, and Dorian reveals Alexius’ plans, however impossible it sounds. Magic on its own is overwhelming as it is, but time traveling magic? It sounds like a fictional story. But, with everything he’s heard and seen so far - Fiona’s behavior, the strange rifts - is it really so far-fetched?

Adaar has never heard of the Venatori before, but when Felix arrives and speaks of them, that ominous feeling forms in his gut again. A Tevinter cult that somehow, for whatever reason, wants to get to the Herald - and Adaar remembers Alexius’ tone of voice when he questioned him, however briefly, about the Fade.

“Whenever you’re ready to deal with him, I want to be there,” Dorian says, anger entering his voice. “I’ll be in touch.”

Then with a brief plea to Felix to not get himself killed, Dorian disappears further into the Chantry. Adaar rubs his chest, wondering just what in the world he’s been thrown into, and wonders yet again if this Maker is toying with him.

The Templars, the Lord Seeker, may be acting absurd, but something dark and terrible is lurking behind the Venatori, and Adaar needs to find out just what it is.

 

***

 

It’s late afternoon when they reach Haven, and the journey from Redcliffe has been a sufficient amount of time to mull over everything that’s happened since he set out just shy of a week ago.

The Chargers have set up their tents near the stables, and Adaar can see the casks Cremisius mentioned on the coast. They seem to have sealed them by stuffing leaves in the cracks, packed so tightly the ale is unable to escape - just to axe them open again. Why didn’t they just pull out the leaves?

The casks are inconsequential, however. Adaar is looking for something else, and finds it in the two black points sticking up over the tents. He rounds the corner and beelines for Iron Bull. He’s speaking to Cremisius, who is holding three tankards for reasons beyond Adaar’s understanding, and they both turn to him as he approaches.

“Your Worship,” Cremisius greets, standing a little straighter.

“Hey, boss,” Bull says, and does not stand straighter.

“You’ve settled in,” Adaar comments.

“Yeah. Was a little difficult to find a spot to pitch our tents, but this is good. If anything happens, the Chargers can hold the walls.” Then with the grace of a swan gliding across a still lake, Iron Bull says, “Glad to see you’re not ready to fry me at the drop of a hat anymore.”

Adaar thinks nothing of it. “I’d be more likely to freeze you, but yes. I realized it would be rather foolish of the Qunari to assassinate me and risk war with all the south’s faithful. Even those who condemn me as a heretic would jump at the opportunity to spill Grey blood.”

He pauses and allows a smirk that’s not quite malicious but not friendly either.

“And then I thought: even if that were the truth, the ‘hide in plain sight’ angle is so impressive I’d almost want to allow it to happen. Can you imagine?”

Cremisius looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, and Iron Bull looks like this is a normal, business-casual conversation.

“I’ve decided to take you on, despite my personal misgivings. Just remember: one foot out of line, and I will kill you myself,” Adaar relays calmly.

“Works for me, boss,” Bull replies, and Adaar feels that he means it, but it’s not enough to quell his distrust.

“Good,” he says. “ _ Panahedan _ .”

As Adaar leaves, he hears Cremisius sigh heavily and say, “What did you do this time?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [KILL-BILL-SIRENS.MP3] or should i say, kill _bull_ sirens?
> 
> Krem was holding three tankards because Bull wanted to see if they could attach two to his horns and make a qunari guzzler helmet (the third one was his own). hope y'all caught my hidden memes
> 
> Also, Bull was _very not_ relaxed during their meeting. _That’s a fucking Saarebas and he’s Angry._ Adaar just isn’t perceptive enough (yet) to realize that


	4. If there's no hope left on another star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaar can’t feel his legs, feels almost like he’s about to disappear into the fog entirely, but the wild look burning in Kilian’s eyes keeps him fettered. “There’s no more rope. I don’t care if you’re dead, or a demon, or whatever. All I have is…. Get… get me out of here. Let me die like a Warden.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS!! Hope y’all wished for angst! We’ve arrived at the mission that makes me very distraught if I think about it too hard. it’s also my least favorite gameplay-wise, and one of the top feels-wise. I feel like in this chapter especially you can tell horror is my favorite genre
> 
> Chapter title…. _Forgive and Forget_ by Red Vox

Alexius sent his word, as promised, and was very particular about mentioning Adaar as the one invited for the unfortunately delayed negotiations. It’s an obvious trap even without Felix and Dorian’s warnings.

This single letter effortlessly sparks a heated discourse. Cullen is vehemently against even attempting to take Redcliffe Castle, while Josephine is concerned with the political ramifications of the Inquisition marching on a Fereldan holding. Leliana and Cassandra are both most concerned about the implications of a hostile Tevinter on their doorstep.

Adaar studies the map spread across the table, the beautiful lettering that marks Redcliffe, and its Crest. The castle sits right on top of lake Calenhad; a large body of water so close by is an excellent way to be rid of waste.

“What if we don’t storm it?” Adaar suggests. “Is there a sewer we can go through?”

Cullen looks pensive. “Well, yes, but we would need boats to reach it… I don’t think it would work.”

“Wait,” Leliana says, and relays about a secret tunnel for the Arl’s family.

“Why didn’t you mention this sooner?” Adaar asks, mildly exasperated. Leliana takes no visible offense.

“It was a long time ago that I used it. I didn’t remember until you mentioned the sewer.”

“Any agents we send through will be discovered well before they reach the Magister,” Cullen says, shooting down the plan immediately. Adaar is growing increasingly frustrated. Does everyone have to be so negative?

“We need a distraction. Perhaps the very envoy Alexius wants so badly?”

In other words, offer Adaar up as bait. It’s the most of a plan they’ve got so far. It’s either this, or they keep sitting on their hands. Of course, there’s the templars, but Adaar has far too much pride to go crawling to some sneering human for help.

The southern mages employ far more freedom than his kin has ever known, but they still live in fear. They need the Inquisition just as much as the Inquisition needs them, if not more.

“I’ll do it,” he says firmly. “It’s not a trap if we expect it.”

 

Along with Leliana’s agents Adaar will definitely need a personal force. Dust motes are catching the light from the stained glass window, slowly drifting in the air. A frontline bodyguard sounds like a good idea, as much as he distrusts Iron Bull. He’s a heavy-hitter, and intimidating, plus he’s Ben-Hassrath and will spot a threat before it has even decided to strike.

The dust motes are snow now, falling from a blue sky decorated with clouds. He’ll need others, too. People he can trust himself to rely on. Cassandra comes to mind right away; she’s strong, an icon. Sera said she would stand behind her in front of anything, and he understands what she meant.

As he wanders familiar voices draw near.

“... and then, after all of that, he turns and says, _‘Looks like the Duke has fallen from grace’_ , and the looks on everyone’s faces!” Varric’s deep rasp is unmistakable, and there’s genuine excitement from the story he tells. “Oh, I could never do them justice.”

Kilian’s brilliant laughter couples it, delighted. “That can’t be real. You’re pulling my pisser!”

“I bullshit a lot, Whiskers, but not this time. We never let him live that one down.”

Varric leans back in his seat, having finished with his story, uncorking his flask. “You two would get on like a house on fire. Things just fly out of your mouths without rhyme or reason.”

“It’s a gift,” Kilian beams.

Adaar watches them talk, and a faraway thought, like a voice on the far side of the lake, thinks they are good fighters, and he trusts them. Yes, he’ll bring them along, too. He knows they work well with Cassandra, already, and Iron Bull surely has men under him that are reminiscent of Varric and Kilian - there was that dwarf... Stocky? Cocky? Adaar feels confident in the team he’s put together, and heads for Haven’s gates.

From dawn’s first rays, until the last of dusk, soldiers of every calibre spar, run drills, exercise, and practice strategy outside of Haven’s walls. It’s an organized cacophony of yelling sergeants, clashing weapons and battle cries, and it is here Adaar most often finds Cassandra. He thinks the chaos gives her focus, or perhaps she seeks to challenge her focus.

When she is not watching the sparring matches, she is honing her own skills against the makeshift dummies that litter the perimeter. What use they actually serve is lost on Adaar, because in a real fight a target will hardly be stationary, and not so willing to limply, lifelessly, take your blows.

In an impressive display of strength and technique, Cassandra severs its head with a thrust to the throat, twisting her hand away to the side in a single harsh movement. The furrow between her arched brows is deeper than usual, but beyond that there is nothing beyond normal in her severe yet beautiful face.

“Herald,” she greets, acknowledging him with a respectful dip of the head as she sheathes her sword. “I suspect you wish to discuss our move on Redcliffe.”

“Perhaps I wanted to ask if I could borrow your kohl,” Adaar says. One of Cassandra’s eyebrows lift slightly in tandem with the corners of her mouth, but she says nothing. “No, you’re right,” he amends.

“I’m almost disappointed,” she says, voice teetering on playful before it drops back into serious. “I am curious, or should I say concerned, about the templars’ secretive behavior. They’re not fighting the mages, so what are they doing? And the Lord Seeker… I hardly recognized him in Val Royeaux.”

Adaar nods. “I am concerned, as well, but something.. _wrong_ is going on in Redcliffe. I must find out what the Venatori wants with me.”

“And we can’t afford to divide our attention,” Cassandra agrees, though reluctantly. With weak enthusiasm, indicating she does not truly believe it will be so, she adds, “Perhaps your business with Alexius will be brief.”

“Perhaps,” Adaar says in a similarly faithless manner. “Either way, I want you there, Cassandra.”

“Then I will be,” she says firmly. “Who else is coming along?”

“Kilian and Varric,” Adaar says easily, a little amused at the slight curl of distaste her lip takes. “And Iron Bull.”

Cassandra, professional as always, dips her head again. “I will let them know.”

“Good.” He nods in turn, but as he makes to leave and sees the Chargers’ camp, he hesitates. “Actually…” he says. “Don’t worry about Iron Bull, I will speak to him myself.”

“As you say, Herald.”

During the hundred-or-so steps from the training grounds to the mercenary camp, Adaar has managed to regret his decision just as many times. But Iron Bull is sitting right there, watching the soldiers and painfully aware of Adaar very obviously approaching him.

As soon as Adaar is within conversation distance, Iron Bull starts talking about the Inquisition’s trainees, and Cullen’s competency as a commander.

“The army’s coming along fine, but the problem is at the top,” Iron Bull says, fixing his eye on Adaar, who can’t help but bristle. “You’ve got no leader. No Inquisitor.”

Adaar feels challenged, and he honestly doesn’t care if it was intentional or not. “I suspect I will have to be,” he says.

Iron Bull’s plain expression doesn’t change. “Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

“Because I already am,” Adaar says, almost fiercely. He doesn’t like the hint of doubt in Iron Bull’s voice. Adaar can deal with being questioned by humans, by those who have little hope of understanding him, where he comes from, but he will _not_ be questioned by a Qunari.

“The others cannot make up their minds. Every time they’ve been faced with a set of options, they see too many ways for things to go wrong and never reach a conclusion.” Adaar must be a beacon of strength. He has to ensure there’s nothing unfavorable written about him or the Inquisition in the Ben-Hassrath reports. “Each time, I have been the deciding voice.”

Iron Bull says nothing, simply eyeing him quietly. Adaar has trouble reading the nuanced expressions of regular people, there’s no possible way he’s going to read a Ben-Hassrath. He knows Bull is analyzing him, probably writing up something in his head right now.

“I bear the Mark. I’m the only piece that cannot be replaced by someone else.” Adaar huffs, a short and brusque noise. “Besides, when has the right thing ever been the easy thing?”

Iron Bull is silent for a moment. “The Qun doesn’t know what it’s missing,” he says, finally, and Adaar would’ve taken that for a compliment if he didn’t know better.

“It wouldn’t know had I stayed, either,” Adaar replies coolly. “You’ve been chosen for the journey to Redcliffe, as part of my personal force.”

And without giving Iron Bull time to answer, he turns on his heel and leaves. Over his shoulder, voice ringing clear with an authority he didn’t know he possessed until now, he says, “Be ready to leave by noon.”

 

***

 

Redcliffe Castle is very square, but impressive in its height. The plain vertical walls make scaling it nigh impossible, and few can build siege towers or ladders tall enough to stand a chance of getting over them from the depth of the mote. The only means of reaching the castle is the bridge, which would leave any army exposed, and after that they would need to get through the gatehouse’s portcullis, and then the castle gates.

Cullen was right in calling it Ferelden’s most defensible fortress. Had Leliana not known about the secret tunnel, Adaar would be walking to his doom. The entrance hall is wide and lit by sconces, and further in lies stairs leading up to a landing that opens to the next chamber through ten pillars.

A cryer meets them at the stairs, looks at each member of the party, and says nothing.

“Well?” Adaar prompts.

“Master Alexius’ invitation was for the Herald only.”

Adaar frowns at this blatant ploy to get him alone. They’re not even _trying_ to be subtle about it.

“I will attend the negotiations with them or not at all,” he says. The cryer scowls, but gives in to his demands and escorts the party to the throne room.

The magister is quick to start his false pleasantries, rising from where he sits on the Arl’s throne - like a self-imposed ruler - and spread his arms wide in welcome. He calls Adaar friend, but he has scarcely heard a more gratuitous lie.

The Grand Enchanter of the rebel mages asks to be apart of the negotiations, and while Adaar does invite her to the talks for good measure, because opposing Alexius in any capacity is desirable to him, he doesn’t see what good it will do beyond further endearing himself to her. Perhaps that’s all it needs to accomplish.

After all, negotiations will certainly _not_ be taking place.

“I’d like to know why the Venatori wants me dead,” Adaar says, tilting his head, as he sees no point in pretending. He doubts he’ll have another chance at demanding answers directly from the enemy anytime soon. “Did I do something wrong?”

Alexius looks bemused and while he remarks on the marvel of Adaar showing up in spite of this information, Adaar hears a snort behind him. It’s good to know he can still entertain in perilous situations. 

Felix, similarly, doesn’t see the use in pretending; “He knows everything, father.”

Alexius glances over at his son, apprehension evident in his voice, “Felix, what have you done?”

Kilian slaps his forehead like he just remembered something. “Oh right, the trap!” he says, pretending like the lot of them haven’t been painfully aware of it the entire time. “I got so caught up in the conversation. When are we going to spring it? Or is this it?”

“I think this is it,” Iron Bull says.

The magister is not amused, and he rises out of the Arl’s throne just as he raises his voice. “You walk into my stronghold with your stolen Mark - a gift you don’t even understand - and think you’re in control?”

“You’re nothing but a mistake.”

It doesn’t sting as much coming from a man such as he, but when it’s something you’ve been told throughout your whole life, as dogmatic mantra, no less, it’s bound to prod older hurts.

“Who killed the Divine? What is the Mark?” Adaar demands, knowing he must keep Alexius talking. The agents aren’t here yet, but there’s been no sign that they’ve been discovered, either. Anxiously he thinks they won’t get here in time. Alexius will kill him and the world will be doomed.

“It was the Elder One’s moment, and you were unworthy even to stand in his presence!”

And finally, Dorian appears and effortlessly steals the attention of the room by accusing Alexius of being a cliché, and Alexius, in turn, acknowledges him with the resigned recognition of a man whose loved ones have all turned against him.

Dorian takes place next to Adaar. In the corners of his eyes, while Alexius goes on a spiel about restoring the glory of the Tevinter Empire, of mages ruling the world, Adaar sees Inquisition agents silently slit the throats of the unaware Tevinters.

Dorian and Felix fruitlessly attempt to reason with him, and it becomes clear to Adaar that it’s not truly supremacist views that drives this man, but the desperation of a grieving parent.

Alexius fixes his eyes on the Herald, the target of the Elder One’s ire, and Adaar almost _feels_ the magister’s fear upon him, and declares, “Seize them, Venatori. The Elder One demands this man’s life!”

But there is no one left to follow that order.

“Your men are dead, Alexius,” Adaar says, and the magister looks around, distraught to find his Venatori littering the floor and their positions taken by Inquisition agents. Control has been shifted, the trap turned on its head, and now Adaar is the one holding all the cards.

Alexius steps back, complexion growing steadily paler as realization sets in, and just like a cornered animal, he lashes out in desperation. His strange amulet sparks in his hand, hovering and snapping like a rift.

Dorian swings his staff, calling out, and Alexius is disoriented by whatever spell was just flung at him. A strange, spiraling rift opens up upon them, roaring hollowly and drowning out all sound, all light, and all the rest of the world. Adaar imagines he can feel himself falling, or perhaps he is rising, and it feels like the Fade but different.

And then, he is somewhere else.

 

***

 

The smells and sounds of water make themselves known first, and then Adaar finds himself on all fours in it. But it’s dark, and murky, and the air is stale and cold. A door opens, and Adaar just barely registers two Tevinter soldiers rushing in, exclaiming in shock, and proceeding to burn into nothing in the face of a fireball that hurls towards them.

“Displacement? Interesting,” Dorian says.

Adaar’s in a flooded dungeon, and Dorian is a few feet away from him, and all around them is that strange red lyrium that had appeared around the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, forming large ominous crystals that branch off in thin veins that are eerily similar in appearance to blood vessels.

No one else is around, and there’s a smothering pressure of dread settled on Adaar’s chest.

“Do you feel that?” Adaar says, rudely interrupting whatever Dorian was saying. His eyes dance about the room, wide, desperate, as if he somehow could see that oppressive weight draping over the castle if he just looked hard enough.

“Feel what, exactly?” Dorian asks, looking around with less desperation if only because he sees Adaar doing it. “I’m feeling many things. Residual magic, mostly, along with a staggering amount of concern for our wellbeing.”

“It’s… everywhere, pressing in. Something wrong, twisted,” Adaar tries to explain, but it’s difficult to summon any kind of appropriate descriptor. He doesn’t know enough Common to convey it, this horrifying mass of wrongness that surrounds them. He doubts not even Qunlat could it justice; not Sataa in all his wisdom, Kaariss in all his artistry, not Varric in his clever bending of words. “We need to move.”

They leave the cells they found themselves in while Dorian muses aloud about where they have ended up. Eventually he deduces it’s not a matter of _where_ , but _when_.

“Where did my life go so wrong,” Adaar sighs, because what else can you say to being displaced in time? It shouldn’t be possible.

“In my experience, it all starts with being born,” Dorian says, then effortlessly continues his musing. “Since we’re still in the castle, we could perhaps find the others, provided they’re still around. And if we get to Alexius, we might be able to get our hands on that amulet of his and... Go back.”

The sprawling dungeon is harrowing in its emptiness. Not a whisper of a soul is in sight.

Adaar peers around the corner, because he cannot trust himself to sense anyone beneath the heaviness in the air. He can hardly keep track of Dorian’s vibrant, shivering presence that sparks like Orlesian fireworks - which is essentially a magical beacon of _‘Look at me! Here I am!’_. There’s nothing to greet his sight but more dark halls, thick with emptiness.

“So, you must be Tal-Vashoth,” Dorian says suddenly. Adaar blinks into the dark, turns to look over his shoulder at him with some amount of bewilderment at the rather conversational topic after such an extended silence. It certainly doesn’t befit the situation at hand.

Dorian notes his confusion, “If you were Qunari, you would’ve cut me down before I even opened my mouth. I just assumed.”

“I still could, if it’ll make you feel better” Adaar says, but not threateningly. Fortunately, Dorian takes it for the playful jab it is, and laughs; a pleasant sound. He’d been lead to believe all Tevinter were uptight, cruel supremacists. Seems Dorian is different, or Adaar’s prejudices are simply wrong.

“Don’t worry, I can manage without,” he says, rounding the corner. Whatever the oppressive feeling is that Adaar senses, Dorian doesn’t seem affected by it. “Tal-Vashoth, then?”

“Yes,” Adaar replies, following him down the hall. “It has been almost a decade since I turned from the Qun.”

“Ah.” Dorian turns to look at him, pausing in his tracks. “A true rebel, then,” he says softly, and something enters his voice. Something sorrowful. “I’m sorry.”

Adaar doesn’t stop walking, feels suddenly uncomfortable with the topic at hand, uncomfortable with Dorian’s sympathy.

“What for?” he asks as he passes Dorian by, determinedly not looking at him. He doesn’t need to see whatever grief lies within Dorian’s eyes right now. There’s no need for pity. It’s in the past.

“As a mage… I can’t imagine what it was like.”

His tone is so solemn it’s almost unbearable to listen to. Adaar swallows, his throat feeling tight, every breath grating like coarse sand, and the world feels very cold, and lonesome.

“It was a long time ago,” he says, quietly. “Let’s move on.”

 

While trying to navigate the dungeons, the two of them happen upon Cassandra, locked in a cell and drained of hope. She’s pale, gaunt, and her beautiful dark eyes are beset by an angry red glow.

Immediately, she pleads to the Maker for forgiveness, that she’s failed Him and failed Adaar, failed everyone. So taken aback is he by her harrowing appearance, the strange echo of her voice, that Adaar barely finds the words convince her that he isn’t dead. Dorian explains their displacement in time, and some of Cassandra’s old resolve returns.

She tells of an endless army of demons, and the assassination of the Orlesian ruler Empress Celene that if Adaar can find his way back, all of this could be prevented. Ever steadily does Adaar’s fear of this Elder One grow. This being that has wrought so much death and suffering upon the world. Worst of all, none of them know why.

“If finding Alexius will restore the world,” she says, pulling a sword and shield from a nearby weapon rack. “Then I will do everything in my power to help you.”

They find Varric, as well, but unlike Cassandra he doesn’t seem consumed with despair - or perhaps he is simply beyond caring at all. When the situation has been established, he remarks on how weird shit is always happening to Adaar, and he must agree. By some miracle, Bianca is still in Varric’s possession, though without bolts she is harmless.

“With the current pattern forming, I suspect we can find the others, as well,” Dorian says while the dwarf rummages through chests for anything usable as lethal projectiles.

“They’re around, somewhere,” Varric confirms, straightening up from a deep dive, and his voice sends a chill down Adaar’s spine. He sets a narrow bolt into the flight groove and secures the latch. “We’ve swapped cells, now and then. For the most effective lyriumification, I guess.”

Adaar nods, then tells the others, “Keep an eye out for Kilian and Iron Bull.”

 

At a strange intersection of bridges that seems to drop into an endless abyss, they come across a handful of Venatori soldiers. Varric releases the latch on Bianca and fires a bolt into the wall, missing the head of one of them. Cassandra hoists her shield with a grunt, and it is clear they are both rusty, having not partaken in any fighting or exercises for the better part of a year.

It’s a gruesome but swift battle, especially with the combined might of Adaar and Dorian’s magic. The quick end has also to do with the recklessness of their enemy. There’s something thoughtless about how the Venatori fight, like they’re fighting for everything and nothing all at once. There’s no strategy, no tactics, just a mindless charge like they cannot spill blood fast enough.

Down a corridor, and a set of stairs, splashing through another flooded basement, and they hear singing. It’s sloppy, though; gruff and without any intention of hitting a note, let alone keep a tune. It’s a drinking song, one that Adaar has heard but never seen finished, as he’s yet to meet any party that can last for a hundred bottles.

Iron Bull hears them approach, and stops singing.

“You’re not dead? You’re supposed to be dead,” he says, then adds something about a burn. Something ugly and vindictive in Adaar wonders if he’s disappointed, then he reminds himself that no, he wouldn’t be. The Ben-Hassrath wants the Herald alive, to stop the Breach.

Adaar tunes back in to the conversation to find Iron Bull still insisting him and Dorian died.

“I’m clearly standing right here, completely alive,” Adaar says impatiently.

“Great. Now _dead_ and _not dead_ are up for debate.”

“I didn’t even die in the first place.”

“This conversation is taking a turn for the moronic,” Dorian interrupts, thankfully. “Let’s just go”

The idea of killing Alexius appeals to him, however, and Iron Bull drops the death debate in favor of getting moving. There’s only so much ‘but you died’ a man can take in one day, and he is at least glad for Iron Bull’s straightforward attitude.

 

When they finally find Kilian, it’s even worse than the others. The proud, cheerful Warden is a husk; his skin sunken and pale, so dry it’s cracking, and from those cracks oozes pure black malice. His posture is crooked and awkward, and he’s humming a disturbing melody that rises and falls awkwardly, never quite becoming a proper song.

Seeing this, Adaar almost doesn’t want to approach the prison. Somewhere around him (he can’t even decipher a direction) he hears someone swear. Maybe it’s Varric, maybe it’s himself. But he needs Kilian, and his chest feels tight at such a thought, and he somehow lifts his lead-heavy feet and moves closer.

“Kilian,” he says weakly, and the broken Warden’s head snaps up, blinking in confusion. His eyes are permeated by a red glow, like the others, and snaps of red lightning spark from them occasionally.

“Adaar!” Kilian exclaims, rushing forward and clinging to the bars of his prison, his fingernails cracked and long where they curl around iron in a deathgrip. He looks at each of them in turn, visibly confused. “And Varric, and Cassandra, and Iron Bull, and… Dorian, yes? That was your name? Is your name?”

“I… Yes,” Dorian says slowly, voice uncertain. “What happened to you?”

There’s a strange, breathy noise coming out of Kilian’s throat, and his red, diseased eyes glaze over for a second. Just as Adaar realizes he might be laughing, Kilian’s attention snaps back to them.

“It’s… I’m out of rope. You remember that, Adaar?” he breathes, adjusting his grip on the bars. Adaar can’t feel his legs, feels almost like he’s about to disappear into the fog entirely, but the wild look burning in Kilian’s eyes keeps him fettered. “There’s no more rope. I don’t care if you’re dead, or a demon. All I have is…. Get… get me out of here. Let me die like a Warden.”

With sick realization, Adaar remembers the Calling. It must be consuming him. Wordlessly he opens the cell door, and it swings open with a rattle.

Kilian nearly stumbles out, like he’s forgotten how to use his legs. “Thank you.”

 

Amidst more oppressive rooms and crystals of red lyrium, they hear what sounds like an interrogation, but as they come closer it’s evident no information is desired, only suffering.

Adaar wastes no time shoving open the door to the room where it’s taking place, and sees a Venatori torture master, a table of menacing tools laying atop a bloodied tray, and before him hangs the Inquisitions spymaster, suspended by her wrists. She looks like a living corpse.

Their sudden unexpected entrance grabs the torturer’s attention, and Leliana seizes the opportunity to fling her legs up, wrapping them around his neck and jerking his head at an unnatural angle with a sickening snap. He falls to the ground with a thud, and Leliana sags with exhaustion as Adaar hurries to undo her shackles.

“You’re alive,” she sighs, and he’s glad to not be taken for a ghost for once.

The party continues through the castle, a tense silence over them all after Leliana’s anger with Dorian’s assurance that this could all be unmade - “I suffered. The whole world suffered.”

Adaar is torn between glancing back at his people, broken and corrupted, and keeping his focus straight ahead. There’s no use in deliberating how far they can go, how much he can ask of them, the only way this can be unmade is if they reach Alexius. And yet, he cannot quell the worry simmering in the pit of his stomach when Kilian starts humming, when Varric keeps shaking his head, when Cassandra stumbles over nothing.

Fear almost swells into panic when they reach the courtyard, and find they’ve even been bereaved the simple comfort of a vast blue sky. Far above them dwells no clouds, no sun, only the twisting, snapping green of the Fade.

The Breach has grown large enough to swallow the entire sky, reaching even beyond the horizon.

Adaar feels hollow, and most of what he does is per automatic; just going through the motions. Here he sends ice shards into the depths of a Venatori’s helmet, here he’s thrusting Shiovera’s dagger into the crooked chest cavity of a Horror, here he helps someone to their feet after taking on more than they can handle (was it Cassandra? Was it Kilian?)

And through this infinite sea of nameless faces, blank helmets, and demons, they’re breaking into Alexiu’s chambers at last.

Alexius is staring into a fireplace at the end of the hall, looking far older than he ought to, and he doesn’t even stir as the Herald approaches.

“I knew you would come for me eventually,” he tells Adaar in a tired, sluggish voice. “Not when, nor where, but I knew I hadn’t destroyed you. My final failure.”

“Did you know the world would come to this?” Adaar asks. “That this is what the Elder One would accomplish?”

Alexius sighs. “It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

“It matters!” Adaar snaps fiercely, furious with his resignation. “Then I will know what to do with you when I get back.”

“‘Get back’. How many times have I tried?” the broken man muses, still not looking away from the flames, the only warmth left in this bleak desolate world. “The past cannot be undone. The Elder One comes for us all.”

Leliana loses her patience. She hauls up the creature kneeling near the hearth and puts a knife to its throat; a man so diseased Adaar half thinks it’s a reanimated body, with pallid skin, sunken cheeks, and hollow eyes. His once well-fitted clothes hang off of him like rags on a clothesline. Then he recognizes the color of the patchy stubble on his scalp, and the shape of his nose and lips. This wretched half-corpse is Felix.

“That’s Felix?” Dorian asks. “Maker’s breath, Alexius, what have you done?!”

“I saved his life!” Alexius cries, then pleads with Leliana, “Please, don’t hurt my son. I’ll do anything you ask.”

Leliana’s face remains cold, and she doesn’t budge, doesn’t respond to him. Adaar knows killing him would be a mercy, but Alexius won’t see it that way.

“Let him go, Leliana,” he orders. All they need is the amulet. Alexius is potentially cooperative, if they could convince him to just give it up…

Alexius’ pleas for his son continue. “Let him go, and I swear you’ll get what you want.”

Leliana stares him down, eyes hard. “I want the world back,” she says, and slits Felix’ throat.

“ _Vishante kaffas_ ,” Dorian hisses, drawing his staff from his back. Leliana is flung backwards from the furious surge of Alexius’ magic, and Cassandra darts forward to catch her. They’ll have to do this the hard way, then. Adaar quells his frustration with Leliana’s rash decision, and focuses on gathering mana in his hands.

The instability and suffering of the world draws through demons; the veil is so thin it might as well not even be there at all. To his left, a whirling cluster of wisps, to his right, a rage demon melting over and over again. He feels Dorian’s magical barrier rush up his legs, prickling over his skin and then settling.

Iron Bull charges, his axe swinging in a low sideways arc into the legs of a Horror, stunning it, joined by Kilian who sprints forward, plants a foot on Iron Bull’s back and using him as a springboard to leap up and stab his daggers into its gaping head. Before it dies, the Horror tosses Kilian aside and slashes Iron Bull across his chest with its menacing claws, but the raking motion continues in on itself as the torso continues to rotate, and then collapse with a horrible shriek.

Cassandra slams into the rage demon, lava spilling over her shield and charring her arm, but she does not cry out in spite of the severe burns. Her sword parts it in two, and before it can roil and twist and reform, a strange magical burst surges from her, crackling with hot red energy, and the bubbling rage demon roars and gurgles pitifully before disintegrating itself.

Varric and Leliana are picking off the wisps that weave in and out of the battlefield, expertly sending bolts and arrows through their faint, glowing bodies and dodging other fights to collect them.

Dorian and Alexius are locked in a duel; an elegant dance of staff work with magic meeting magic as a stream of spells strike each other, evenly matched. An overhead spin, a quick sweep, a slam into the ground, and fire, electricity and something deep purple and skin-crawling that Adaar doesn’t know.

Alexius is distracted, vulnerable. This is his chance. Adaar can step through the Fade so easily he hardly has to think about it, and he vanishes into it. For one terrifying moment he thinks he can’t push back through it, but then he sees the fragmented, twitching form of Alexius’ presence, and he lunges for what he thinks is his throat.

When his marked hand seizes the magister’s neck, Alexius cries out in fear, and Adaar has something to anchor himself to. He pulls back through the Fade, solidifying in the real again, and thrusting his magic into the frail old man. Frost creeps up his throat, over his face. His struggling turns stiff and slow and his breathing grows faint.

In but a moment, he stills, completely frozen.

Dorian comes up, eyeing the macabre ice statue with dark eyes.

“He wanted to die, I think,” he says softly. “His son withered away before his eyes, dead without him even noticing.”

With eyes cast to the ground, he sighs, “Oh, Alexius…” and there is far too much history in that simple expression that Adaar doesn’t dare pry. Not here, and not a man he barely knows, even as compassionate and sympathetic as Dorian has already proven to be.

“It’s not too late,” Adaar says. “Not where we’re supposed to be.”

“I suppose so,” Dorian replies morosely, then collects his grief for another time. As the whole castle rattles with the ominous presence of the Elder One, he explains rebuilding the spell will take roughly an hour, to which Leliana interjects they simply do not have the time to spare.

“Our urgency will not hasten the process, I’m afraid,” Dorian says. “It will take an hour.”

“We’ll hold them off,” Kilian says suddenly, and all heads turn to him. “It will buy you the time you need.”

“This isn’t exactly how I pictured it, but I suppose it’ll do,” Varric says, immediately joining the plan.

Iron Bull nods, still bleeding from the slashes on his chest. “When they get past us, you better be ready.”

Adaar’s first instinct is to reject the idea, unwilling to let someone else die for him as Aban did, but when he stops to consider the circumstances he finds they have little choice. It’s their they die holding the door, or they all die holding the chambers.

“Die well,” Adaar says, looking each of them in the eye. “You will not remember your sacrifice, but I will.”

“Maker guide you,” Cassandra says.

They all salute him, a closed fist against their hearts, and head for the door, and the stone mechanism slides it shut with a hollow grating. Adaar cannot begin to put words to what he feels. Hopeless, touched, in awe of his companions. Would they have done the same, in the present? Or are they simply out of options?

The hour passes. Periodically Adaar strains his ears, focuses his mind on the door, and feels he can hear their companions fight just outside. But then, it all stills, and in the eerie quiet Adaar realizes they're out of time. The stone door jolts ominously, something slamming into it on the other side. Another slam, and dust and rocks fall from the ceiling above it.

They all know what's coming, and Leliana nocks an arrow, drawing her bow tight, and prays:

"Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame."

The stone doors fling open, demons pouring in, halted only by the barrage of Leliana’s arrows. A Horror tosses Kilian’s limp body aside like a ragdoll; behind rows of legs lies Iron Bull, so mauled Adaar can only recognize him from his size; Cassandra is on her knees, violently trembling and unable to as much as lift her sword before a Shade sinks its claws into her; Varric grotesquely decorates the spines of a pride demon, eyes wide open and Bianca still in his hands.

Adaar feels as if he’s looking without seeing. His hands and legs are twisting horribly, and he may be doubling over backwards but he can’t be sure. Confused as to why he can still see the demons, and not the throne behind him from how he’s bending, he barely registers the arrows slowing their advance.

“Andraste, guide me.” Two demons fall, but more step over their withering bodies, moving steadily towards her. “Maker, take me to your side.”

Her last arrow flies, and she’s overwhelmed. Though she cuts down one, another demons grabs her, and her eyes seek out Adaar, and he lunges toward her. Leliana needs help.

Dorian grabs his arm. “You move, and we all die!” he yells.

Leliana dies for him, eyes wide with terror. They all died for him, without a second thought. The amulet snaps, and a rift opens up behind him. They died for the Inquisition, for the sake of the world. Though self-deprecation wants to attest it to desperation, he wonders if it was faith in _him_ that inspired their noble sacrifice.

The demons advance towards them, but Dorian and Adaar leap through the rift before they reach them. Adaar is falling, rising again, somewhere, somewhen, and the sick, crooked cold melts away.

Redcliffe castle returns, and Adaar draws in a deep breath, filling his lungs with air that isn’t wrong, isn’t sick. He blinks around and sees the world as it was before Alexius displaced them. Sees the world as it was when they still had hope; back where they can still set things right, where his people are alive, where the Breach hasn’t swallowed the sky.

Adaar sees Alexius, and the magister falls to his knees with the knowledge that he’s failed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why do the chapters always turn out so much longer than i anticipate. i had to split it in two again, and it STILL feels like it's short. probably feels that way because it's so fast-paced and panicky, and i also dont rly like writing action scenes sooooo
> 
> thank all of you for your reads, comments, and kudos!! i am always excited to see ppl enjoy my stor y
> 
> we're starting to get to the Meat of it...


	5. While I let the Water take me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of all that infinity, in all the fire crawling through his arm to where it touches his heart, touches beyond everything that he was, is, and will be, nothing matters. For one brief, unbearable moment, there is nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait y’all i was working on this and then i suddenly found myself moving out and with a whole apartment to make into a home
> 
> this is where i said “fuck canon i do what i want” _for real_ for real (beyond the sheer presence of Kilian of course). Not super altering but enough to keep things fresh and new right? Right .. ….. There is going to be companion favoritism and i’m sorry and also predictable
> 
> ONE DAY I’LL GET TO MY FAVORITE MISSIONS BUT THAT IS NOT THIS DAY
> 
> Chapter title is from _What the Water Gave Me_ by Florence + the Machine

The last time Adaar traversed this valley, he had battled a huge Pride demon, attempted the impossible, and then proceeded to spend the following three days unconscious and, judging from the notes he found, barely clinging to life.

It’s more than enough to make a man apprehensive in the face of a second attempt, and Adaar finds little comfort in knowing he has an army of mages quite literally at his back. There is no one that can tell him what to do. No one with any sort of experience to guide him. Being a pioneer in strange lands had been something he’s always wanted, but being a pioneer in strange, dangerous magical feats it not something he’s ever asked for.

There were many who were less than pleased with Adaar’s decision to harbor the rebels, but he would be the first to dare anyone to challenge it.  _ If they are to be imprisoned, _ he said,  _ let it be for their crimes, not their magic. _

He is no fool to the dangers that magic poses, but nothing will change if the opportunity for change is never given in the first place. Re-attaching the leash which caused the war to begin with would be rather counterproductive, and Adaar has no interest in becoming Arvaraad.

What remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes still litters the crater that has taken its place. Pieces of grand statues to Andraste have been carelessly thrown by the initial explosion; here lies a face, there her cradling hands, and here the elegant ridges what resemble flowing robes. Veins of red lyrium hum ominously, sprouting out of the ground like vicious weeds. Adaar’s imagination fools him into thinking they look larger than the last time they were here, and he tries to ignore such a frightening thought; that they are growing.

Far, far above, the Breach continues with its sickening noises, disrupting the world with its very presence.

Below it, Adaar is joined by Cassandra, Solas, and a handful of Inquisition soldiers at the bottom of the crater.  _ The pit of despair _ , Varric had called it, and Adaar has to agree. There’s an itch of a memory in the back of his head that has something to do with this place, but he cannot reach it; like trying to hold wind.

Solas calls out to the Inquisition’s new mages somewhere behind him, but he struggles to hear anything over the roar of the Breach. It’s especially loud here, for reasons he cannot comprehend. The wind whips around him, and it’s getting harder to breathe. Then, there’s a feeling he cannot name in any other way than the antonym of loneliness. Like being crowded. He feels each individual will of the mages behind him, feels them focus in on him like a beacon in the dark.

It feels like being endless. So many different impressions, all at once.

Adaar raises the Mark, becoming little else but a living conduit of raw power. He wonders if he’ll be ripped apart this time. If the magic will be too much for him, that his body will disintegrate along with the Breach, or perhaps he will be permanently drawn into the Fade where he will slowly wither away.

But somehow, none of this matters.

In the midst of all that infinity, in all the fire crawling through his arm to where it touches his heart, touches beyond everything that he was, is, and will be, nothing matters. For one brief unbearable moment, there is nothing, and doubt does not exist.

Then the feeling bursts out of him, and he knows once more the fullness of being alive. Aware of his own breathing, his heartbeat, the clothes against his skin. The Mark crackles, snaps, twists, and it tugs on the wicked edges of the Breach and drags it shut.

The wound in the sky closes with a roar. Ash and dust is flung into the air as the valley groans and shudders, and then all is still. Adaar finds himself on his knees, exhausted and drained of all that he is. But he is alive, and he is intact, and Cassandra finds him as the dust settles and lays a hand upon his shoulder.

“You did it,” she breathes, and he looks up to see a faint green scar shifting among the clouds.

The Breach is sealed.

 

***

 

Later that night, all of Haven is enveloped in cheer and high spirits. Anyone who knows their way around an instrument - and even those who don’t - has picked one up, playing merrily away as people eat, drink, and dance around various bonfires lit up all across the village.

Wherever Adaar goes, people raise cups, mugs, and tankards to him. Cheers and toasts follow in his wake, and as the night goes on and his belly fills with ale he begins to respond to them with cheers of his own.

Everything is warm, and a little fuzzy, and he feels the fog but it’s not him or the world that’s distant this time, but the fog itself. It’s just around the corners, and he feels apart of something -- almost like with the Valo-Kas. It feels close to happiness, though it’s not quite there yet. Relief, perhaps. Something going right. Wherever he turns there’s a smiling face.

Fingers reach for his neck, and press against the faint bump beneath his clothes sitting just below the hollow where his collar bones meet; Shiall’s owl. He wonders if the clan has heard of him. He wonders if the sisters would be proud of him, of how far he’s come from that lost, broken Saarebas they found in the woods so many years ago. He hopes they know he still thinks of them, and he hopes they still think of him.

A posh Tevinter accent cuts through the ambient merriment and his thoughts, but is no less melodic for the interruption.

“Adaar, is it?”

Dorian saunters up next to him armed with a generously full glass of wine, and a near scandalous outfit that must be dreadfully cold. “Lovely party. Almost makes you forget about the lingering doom entirely.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Adaar replies evenly, finding his own accent has grown heavier from drink.

“What’s not to enjoy? We live to fight another day and the grand Inquisition has become just a little grander. But that’s not what I came to bother you about.” Dorian sips his wine, and Adaar turns toward him, ear pricked.

“Not to dive straight back into the doom and gloom, but something you mentioned back in.. well, the future, piqued my interest,” Dorian continues effortlessly, weaving words like he’s done nothing but talk since the moment he left the womb. “Quite a few things did, in all honesty, but I’m sure those are subjects for other times.”

“I am quivering with anticipation,” Adaar says, a little dryly, and Dorian barks a laugh.

“Oh, do forgive me. I happen to possess the unfortunate trait of enjoying the sound of my own voice,” he says. “But I digress; when we were first displaced, you spoke of an overwhelming feeling of oppressiveness, which I myself could not sense.”

“I don’t expect you to be able to explain it to me, or to anyone, but I have been ruminating over it ever since, and I simply must ask about it.”

Adaar blinks, unsure of how to answer. But Dorian is looking at him expectantly, eyes twinkling with curiosity and a thirst for knowledge, and he feels inclined to answer honestly.

“It’s a skill I developed out of necessity, I suppose,” he begins slowly. “When my magic manifested, I was... uncooperative. I tried to run away, and so they decided I was a risk and rendered my eyes shut as well as my lips. Sensing people, their presence-- their Souls, in a way -- became my way of seeing.”

Dorian has that dull sorrow in his eyes again, but he doesn’t vocalize his sympathy this time. Instead, he thoughtfully drags a fingertip along the elegant curl of his moustache. “They say those who are blind, either from birth or acquired later in life, develop keener senses in order to compensate… Perhaps magic, as well, becomes more acute? How interesting…”

Adaar doesn’t really know what to do with the idea of someone being interested in something that is solely _ him _ , something that has nothing to do with the Mark, so he rambles on:

"I believe what I sensed was whatever or whoever the Elder One is; and if not his presence, then his influence," Addar says. "It was unlike anything I've ever felt before."

“Somewhere along the line, I could identify select people from their presence, if I was around them enough. They are each unique. The Valo-Kas used to joke that I could know who is in a room by sense of smell. I am beginning to recognize people in the Inquisition.”

“Truly? How curious!” Dorian exclaims. “Humor me for just another moment; what’s my presence like? I simply must know.”

“I don’t know how to explain it. But I remember seeing the fireworks in Orlais. It’s like that.”

“Fireworks? How glamorous,” Dorian says, sounding pleased. “And appropriate. I believe the chatty dwarf has dubbed me ‘Sparkles’. I’m noticing a pattern.”

There’s a lull in the conversation, but it doesn’t feel entirely awkward. They stand side by side in silence, watching the crowd, and it feels like companionship. It reminds him of spending time with Sataa; there would be moments for conversation, and moments of silence, and neither was more important than the other.

Dorian sips his wine, though it’s more of a mouthful than a sip, and says, “Tell me, how in the name of everything sacred is a Tal-Vashoth and a Qunari within a mile of each other with such a remarkable absence of bloody warfare?”

“Haven is big enough for the two of us,” Adaar replies evenly.

Dorian eyes him, one of his meticulously painted eyebrows arching much higher than the other. “Adaar, you are by far the strangest Tal-Vashoth I’ve ever met.”

With a little smile, Adaar says, “Then you have not met the Valo-Kas.”

“If they are anything like you, I’m sure it would be if not pleasant then at the very least a memorable experience,” Dorian says, giving Adaar a smile before gliding away with a polite dip, twirling his near-empty glass.

Flattered and unsure of himself, Adaar heads for the nearest keg to get a refill of his own drink and decides to not think too hard about any part of that exchange.

At one of the tables he spots Kilian, and he’s about to make his way over when he notices who it is Kilian is talking to. Iron Bull is next to him, vividly telling a story while simultaneously wolfing down a roasted thigh of some large creature. They’re joined by a handful of Chargers who are either paying attention, attempting to pay attention, or not paying attention at all.

Dismay is one word to describe what Adaar feels at the sight. A dark, simple thought passes furiously by (Why is he speaking with  _ Iron Bull _ when he could be speaking with _ me? _ ) followed by confusion, and embarrassment. It’s not like... Well, he and Kilian aren’t _ involved _ \-- it’s just.. When he smiles like  _ that _ and-- Adaar doesn’t trust the Iron Bull, is all. He’s Qunari, and Ben-Hassrath, everything untrustworthy that a man could be. They may not be engaging in  _ bloody warfare _ , like Dorian had put it, but that doesn’t mean he has to trust him. Or like him. Or be near him any more than necessary.

Kilian motions with his ale in some direction, Adaar doesn’t pay attention to that, only to the way he’s  _ smiling _ . The Iron Bull nods, and as Kilian leaves the Qunari reaches forward and smacks him on the ass. Kilian stumbles forward from the impact and laughs loudly, and Adaar forces his jaw to relax before his skull cracks from the tension. Face flushed with embarrassment at his own reaction to what, realistically, should be harmless flirting, he flees up the rise that leads up to the Chantry.

Away from the party, and the warm fires, Adaar feels suddenly cold - but it’s a welcome sensation. The chill sobers him a little, and being away from the noise and movement makes him feel calmer. Ignoring the fact that he just fled the scene like a flustered maiden, it’s less overwhelming, up here.

People glance up at him, now and then, but no one invites him back into the fray. He feels set apart, but he knows that as the Herald, that is what he must be.

By sheer circumstance he’s been placed above them, under the implication that his life is worth more, and they don’t even question his right to wordlessly look down upon them. He can’t just be a person anymore, and he is slowly coming to terms with this fact. This is much bigger than him, and whatever wounds he carries and will come to carry in the future don’t matter.

Adaar sighs, rubbing his chest to try and will away the vague anxiety simmering there.

He’s frightened, suddenly, and he realizes it’s because there was once a time that he wasn’t a person, and even though this iconship is far different, it’s similar enough that it terrifies him.

“Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it,” says a soft voice to his side, and Adaar freezes. He turns, stiffly, with his heart in his throat. This is not a place he would expect to hear the Qun. A gangly boy with a ridiculously big hat stands there, hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller than he is.

“That’s what you always tell yourself,” he says, wringing his hands. “To stop suffering. But that’s not how you stop it.”

“How do you know that?” Adaar asks, stepping back. Is this a Ben-Hassrath? A demon?

“I can hear you,” the boy replies, ever in that soft, still voice -- so full of emotion that there is none. “But it’s hard; you’re very bright. I want to help.”

“I’ve never told anyone that,” Adaar says, thinking if he is neither of those then he must be a mage. Is it blood magic? Would that allow one to hear a person’s mind?

“It’s not magic. It’s just me,” he replies, as if Adaar had spoken his thoughts aloud. “I’m Cole. And you’re Free. You took it, and you’ll be that forever until  _ you _ stop. No one can take it from you. It hurts because you don’t know how to take more.”

Adaar blinks into the dark. He’s certain someone was there, just now. He continues rubbing his chest, but finds the fluttering anxiety has grown more manageable. He turns back to the people down the rise, in the heart of the village, looks at their bright smiling faces and their raised mugs. He hears them toast in the name of the Inquisition, in the name of the Herald.  _ Their _ Herald, they call him. Not in a way that is possessive, he realizes, but in a way that means  _ he’s with us _ .

He should be proud, he tells himself. Proud that the people believe in him. The people, because he cannot bring himself to call them  _ his _ people. Not yet.

 

Bright like the Fade; the inspiring yet vaguely helpless feeling Adaar has come to associate with Cassandra draws near. The Seeker is a bit of a paradox, how she feels larger than life and so pitifully small all at once.

“Cassandra,” he greets.

She comes to stand beside him, hands loosely clasped behind her back.

“I’ve spoken with Solas, and he confirms the Breach remains dormant,” she says. Adaar nods. He knows, already. The vague, ominous snapping he’d always felt in the distance was gone now, settled into a blissful stillness. The sky remains scarred, a faint green ripple in the clouds, but the world is no longer twisting in on itself.

“This is only the first victory,” Adaar says. “There is too much we don’t know.”

“I agree,” Cassandra says. “We don’t know who was behind the Breach to begin with, nor the identity of this ‘Elder One’, and the troubling future you saw in Redcliffe.”

She pauses, worrying her lip between her teeth for a moment. After a moment of deliberation, she straightens up and turns to Adaar. “The Inquisition has work to do, yes. But for what it’s worth, you have accomplished much already.”

A crooked smile curls Adaar’s lip. “It doesn’t feel that way,” he says. “The mountain looks just as tall as when we started climbing.”

“We may still be at the foot, but we are off the ground all the same,” she says, then gestures to the celebrating going on below them. “Already, we have formed meaningful alliances. We have earned this moment of rest.”

Adaar opens his mouth to respond, but before he can voice his thoughts, the lookout’s bell begins ringing. Both of them look to the gates, and though Adaar can’t quite see anything happening it is evident that Cassandra does. 

“Torches, in the pass,” she says, drawing her sword. “We need to find Cullen.”

They rush through Haven, weaving through the startled workers, disoriented agents, and stressed soldiers hurriedly transforming their banquet into makeshift barricades. The air is thick with trepidation, the knowledge of a hostile army approaching blanketing over the entire village.

They find Cullen just by the gate where he is joined by Josephine and Leliana.

The identity of their attacker remains unknown, as Cullen reports it marches under no banner. However, Adaar feels something heavy pressing on the edges of his awareness.

He steps towards the gate, tries to reach out towards that oddly familiar heaviness. It feels almost like Redcliffe--

The gate shudders.

“I can’t come in unless you open!”

Adaar rushes forward out of instinct. Someone has been locked out!

“Open it!” he barks at the nearest soldier, who hurries to comply.

The gates open to a scraggly young man stepping away from the soldier he’d just run through with his daggers. Adaar flexes his fingers, taken aback by the gentle bright feeling that envelops the stranger, and he can sense the Fade within him. A mage?

The man approaches in a hurry, and though most of his face is concealed by his ridiculously large hat, his youth is apparent. “I came to warn you -- to help. People are coming to hurt you!” he says urgently, then softly, “ You... probably already know.”

“Have we met?” Adaar asks, because the boy seems familiar, somehow.

“We’re meeting right now,” is the answer. “I’m Cole.”

Cullen rushes to Adaar’s side with his sword drawn.

“What’s going on?” he demands, looking from the boy to Adaar.

The strange boy settles, his voice taking an odd, airy tone as he says, “The templars come to kill you.”

Cullen is aghast at this news, but Adaar is distracted by the growing feeling of despair and oppression in the air. He imagines he can smell it, but there is nothing but the mountain breeze and the lingering scent of the bonfires. Out here, he can see the torches in the pass; a massive army coming down the mountain and heading for Haven.

He’s never seen a force so large.

“The templars went to the Elder One,” the boy says, then turns to Adaar, “Do you know him? He knows you. You took his mages.”

He moves like a flighty bird, Adaar thinks. Like he’s ready to fly off at a moment’s notice. The boy turns and points very deliberately towards the mountain. “There.”

Adaar can’t see anything; only two silhouettes. One looks like a regular person, and the other is so absurdly tall it towers above the first. Somehow, seeing this tall, awkward shadow, Adaar’s heart is gripped with a bone-deep fear, and he knows that this is the Elder One.

“Cullen?” Adaar urges.

Cullen, stunned into silence, springs back into action with the vacant expression vanishing from his face as his duty reminds itself.

“The trebuchets,” he says with that certainty and authority that only experience can grant you. He points towards the mountaintops on either side of the army. “We’ll use them to bury the brunt of their force. Aim for the mountains.”

Adaar nods. “Understood.”

Cullen leaves Adaar to address the Inquisition forces, summoning an inspiring speech from the depths of hopelessness like there is nothing in this world that can shake his resolve.

“Inquisition, with the Herald! For your lives, for all of us!”

Haven’s courageous battle cry roars over the wind, and Adaar hopes he will survive to remember it.

“Sorry we’re late!” says Kilian, appearing at Adaar’s right side and looking a complete mess. He’s missing a glove and his undershirt isn’t buttoned properly beneath his armor. At least he hasn’t misplaced his daggers. Iron Bull joins them on Adaar’s left, looking afflicted by illness from the angry red marks blossoming on his throat.

There’s no time to think about those implications right now.

“Hey, boss,” he greets, hefting his massive axe from his back. “I sent the Chargers to hold the front while Cullen’s boys help people evacuate,” he says.

“The Chargers?” Adaar echoes doubtfully. “The same Chargers I saw falling asleep on top of each other a little while ago?”

He laughs, “We fight better drunk!”

Again, he is reminded of the Valo-Kas with a painful twinge in his chest, and has to make himself remember that this is a Ben-Hassrath agent, and he mustn’t let his guard down. There is no being friendly with Qunari. He glances at Kilian, who is oblivious to his sharp look, or the reasons for it.  _ Worry about it later _ , he tells himself.  _ Kilian can take care of himself. _

“We need to secure the trebuchets,” Adaar says. “Stay close to me, watch our flanks.”

“You got it, boss.”

The first trebuchet is guarded by a handful of Inquisition soldiers. Fortunately, the Chargers are holding the line favorably, but there are still stragglers slipping through the ranks. As the templars close in, it’s revealed they are corrupted by red lyrium.

“Is that.. Lyrium? Growing  _ out _ of them?” Kilian exclaims in shock.

“Ugh. More weird magic crap,” Iron Bull mutters, gripping his axe more firmly.

Right, they didn’t go to the future. They haven’t seen this before.

“It was like this in Redcliffe,” Adaar says. “Put them out of their misery.”

Kilian smashes a small vial at his feet and vanishes in a cloud of smoke, and just a moment later he’s running his daggers through the neck of a templar. Iron Bull tackles another, sending them barreling into a comrade and the two of them toppling over. As they lay prone on top of each other, Iron Bull brings his axe down on top of them in a mighty overhead swing.

Adaar thrusts out his hand and magic propels from his palm, maintaining the vague shape of his hand as it hurls towards a templar heading for the Inquisition soldier manning the trebuchet.

It bursts from the impact of hitting the templar’s chestplate, and the frost is unleashed upon them. Iron Bull lets out a delighted roar of triumph as he parts the statuesque templar with his axe, breaking them at the waist where they shatter like glass, the entire body having crystallized with ice.

“Ha ha, _yes_!” he bellows, then charges forward with his head low and ramming fearlessly into a colossal lyrium creature lumbering up the hill, his horns sending shards of red lyrium scattering over the ground.

Kilian, as mystifying as a mage, appears out of seemingly nowhere. He dashes between the behemoth’s legs, slicing its groin and severely impairing the use of its legs. Finding it difficult to balance itself as it is, with massive crystals of lyrium growing out of its back at odd angles, it topples over with a furious roar. Kilian takes the chance to stab his daggers into its once-human face, stilling it.

“We’ll be fine here, your Worship,” one of the Inquisiton soldiers yells. “Get to the other trebuchet - it isn’t firing!”

In the Fade, the existence of the world is different. Everything responds to you, your thoughts. It manifests according to how you feel, and will change at the faintest inclination. In the Fade, Adaar feels two massive walls, shielding him and his companions; guarding their flanks. With eyes closed, he splays his fingers wide and imagines them dipping into the earth.

Then, he throws his arms up, heaving up the walls the Fade knows are there from the very ground. Ice rises up in two rows on either side of them, closing them in a frozen corridor. Iron Bull and Kilian look over their shoulders at Adaar.

“Watch my back,” he says. “I’ll man the trebuchet.”

They nod and head towards the mouth of the ice corridor, guarding the entrance.

Adaar steps onto the trebuchet’s platform, looking the construct over and feeling relieved that it seems easy to operate. It’s already loaded; all that remains is to aim and fire.

He turns the wheel, a tedious and frustrating task, and he can hear fighting going on behind him along with blades chipping at his walls of ice. Agonizingly slowly, the trebuchet points towards the mountain, and Adaar can only hope it’ll hit its intended mark.

He releases the counterweight, and the counterweight drops while the payload is slung into the air, hurling for the mountain. A cloud of snow rises as the mountain is disturbed, and with a low rumble this cloud grows. Snow is knocked loose and begins tumbling down the steep slopes in a mighty avalanche.

The little glowing torches that dot the mountain pass vanish. The plan worked.

Adaar jogs over to his companions, and they seem relatively unharmed during their stand. Kilian opens his mouth to say something when an ear-piercing screech drowns out every sound. It sounds like metal grinding against metal, like a steel gate that hasn’t moved in centuries suddenly being opened.

A huge shadow passes over them, and the three turn their eyes to the sky. A pitch black high dragon, almost disappearing in the night sky, flies overhead. Crackling red fire drips from its mouth, and it dives to the right and heads back towards them.

With a snarl, it gathers fire in its throat and spits a roaring ball of flame in their direction, hitting the trebuchet and destroying it utterly before rising higher in the sky.

“They have a dragon!?” Iron Bull yells, sounding equal parts excited and mortified.

“Not a dragon,” Kilian says darkly. “An archdemon.”

Adaar has seen darkspawn before, has fought them under the Valo-Kas and even the Blackwater Serpents, but the last Blight was over before it ever spread outside of Ferelden. He thought it took centuries between Blights; at least that’s what he read -- and they are always signified by the appearance of an archdemon.

“Is this a Blight?” Adaar wonders aloud. “So soon?”

Kilian shakes his head. “No, which is what makes it showing up here even more puzzling.”

“The trebuchets are useless against this,” Adaar says. “There’s no point risking our lives out here. Let’s get back to Haven.”

The village is near unrecognizable when they get back. Buildings are collapsing, burning, turned inside out and abandoned. There are bodies, it cannot be helped, but seen and unseen. But there are also survivors, and the three of them are all of the inclination to help them to the last.

They arrive just in time to aid Lysette under attack by a group of lyrium templars. Iron Bull lifts a scorching beam off of Flissa’s legs, burning his own hands in the progress. Kilian, being significantly smaller than his companions, slips into a half-collapsed cabin to help Seggrit who has been trapped inside, the two of them bursting out of the door together. They haul Adan and Minaeve to their feet and drag them off before the alchemical pots near them explode from the fire raging all around them.

Quartermaster Threnn is cornered just outside the chantry, and she thanks them gratefully as the last templar falls and the chantry courtyard is once again relatively safe.

 

Grand Chancellor Roderick opens the doors, ushering them all inside, and the group wastes no time in rushing to safety. Inside the chantry they finally have a chance to catch their breath.

It’s crowded, and smells of death.

Cullen is trying to be in several places at once, and Adaar can see his companions mixing seamlessly with the crowd.

Hopelessness is thick in the air, even as he overhears a dying Chancellor Roderick tell the commander there is a hidden passage, deep in the chantry. Cullen sighs, saying they will be overtaken in a heartbeat, but it is the only chance they got. He moves on, speaking to soldiers, to agents, to workers. Things need to be done. Barricades need to be built.

Adaar remains still, in the center of the chantry. Moonlight is filtering in through the stained glass window above the doors, and the usual warm colors are turned into hues of blue, white, and silver.

The Elder One wants the Herald. Haven is under attack solely because Adaar is here. He looks over the chantry, and all he sees are people suffering. Wounded villagers bleeding through their clothes, the faithful dying on the floor with their eyes desperately fixed on the carved face of Andraste, soldiers splinting their sword-arms and putting armor back on over it.

He walks over to where Chancellor Roderick lays and squats down.

“If the trebuchets were to be turned on the mountains,” Adaar says, voice low. “If Haven was buried, could the mountain path keep people safe from the avalanche?”

Chancellor Roderick looks at him first in confusion, then realization dawns in his eyes.

“Yes,” he says after a long pause. “Yes, it could.”

Adaar inhales through his nose, almost feels tangible desperation fill his lungs, but he needs to do his job. The people of the Inquisition are suffering, and he has the means to make a difference.

That strange boy, Cole, draws near.

“Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it,” he says softly, and Adaar gets the strange feeling that he’s heard him say it before, though he cannot recall it ever happening. And despite everything, despite all the pain that phrase has caused, it feels different in this one instance. Like it’s just his this time.

“I have to face the Elder One,” Adaar says. “It’s me that he wants. If I go, then these people have a chance.”

He knows that more likely than anything, he goes to his death -- but the Breach is sealed, and all that remains is the Elder One. The Inquisition can survive without Adaar, as long as they survive Haven.

“You want to help,” Cole says. “I will make it so they don’t notice. It will be only yours.”

Adaar nods solemnly, thankful that Cole understands without him having to explain himself, but he feels a need to voice it anyhow.

“In the future I saw, my people gave their lives for me without hesitation,” he murmurs softly. “It is only fair that I show them the same conviction.”

Cole looks at him with wide watchful eyes, as if he isn’t looking at Adaar but  _ into _ him.

“ _ Your _ people,” he echoes just as softly with a slight smile, because he sees that Adaar has dared to take a little more.

Chancellor Roderick reaches out a shaking hand and grasps Adaar’s shoulder weakly. “Andraste guide you,” he says, gasping for air. “May the Maker protect you, and bring you back to us.”

Adaar blinks at him, taken aback by his remarkably changed disposition. Among all those who accused Adaar of heresy, Roderick was the loudest, but now his dying eyes glow with faith. He looks at Adaar with the same reverence the humans reserve for their beloved Andraste herself.

“I don’t think your Maker can save me from anything,” Adaar says, bowing his head, overwhelmed by the magnitude of Roderick’s faith in him.

The chancellor sounds as if every word he speaks is torture, but there is no pain in Thedas that could stop him saying his piece;

“He will, just as He has before.” His trembling hand attempts to squeeze Adaar’s shoulder, but it is scarcely more than a twitch. “You may not believe you were chosen, Herald,” he says, voice vanishing into naught but a whisper. “But to us, it is as certain as the dawn.”

 

***

 

Adaar tells Cullen - and only Cullen - his plan, and to take everyone down the hidden mountain path. Cullen assures him they will signal when they are safe. When he asks how Adaar will join them and he doesn’t answer, he weakly tries his hand at optimism, then moves on.

Adaar slips unnoticed out of the chantry while the commander rallies everyone. The doors shut behind him, and he can only hope Cullen will think to barricade them, and he is alone.

There’s something to be said of the feeling of knowing you’re facing your death. He doesn’t feel noble, or inspiring. Most of all, he feels the cold of the frostbacks, fear that he will fail, and regret for all the things he will miss out on. Like kissing, for example. Or sleeping with someone. Or having just one more piece of Tevinter chocolate over a fire.

Adaar charges forward, feeling no need to reign in his magic in fear of harming any companions, and releases the harrowing cold blizzard that lingers within him.

A group of templars are approaching, beset by red lyrium. It grows out of them through cracks in their armor. One of the templars’ visor is completely obscured by a crystal of lyrium, and Adaar shudders to imagine what the wretched thing looks like without the helmet on.

He’s not forgotten a sword, this time; a two-handed greatsword, which in a perfect world would be clay tempered, or even enchanted, but the Inquisition’s budget is still limited in spite of all Josephine’s efforts.

Wind and snow roars around him, frost crawling down his arms and covering the hilt of his sword and forming crystals along the whole length of the blade. He swings it over his head, then draws back while still utilizing the momentum from his swing and thrusts the sword into the nearest templar’s chest. Their pained cry echoes like the voices in Redcliffe’s future, and a shiver travels up Adaar’s spine. The lyrium hums, sings, and it feels like a fever; hot and dizzy.

Even with the Breach sealed, it’s as if the Fade is resting against his skin like a thin cloth. With barely a thought he can pull magic across the Veil and draw it around himself, manifesting over his back and shoulders reminiscent of dragonscales.

A second templar lurches forward, and Adaar’s frozen armor shoots down his arm and catches the  blade before it can cut into his elbow. This is a last-ditch effort, after all, he doesn’t need to worry about conserving his mana.

He whirls around, ramming the blunt edge of his sword into the side of the templar’s helmet, then thrusting it through the gap in the armor by the armpit. He closes his eyes, feels the world around him grow dull and vibrant all at once, and slips through the Fade and through another templar who stops dead in their tracks at the sensation.

Adaar returns from beyond the veil and summons a mighty frozen spike from the ground, the sharp pillar impaling the templar from beyond. He doesn’t linger to inspect his handiwork.

He breaks into a sprint, urging himself to run faster as the last trebuchet appears in sight.

It’s difficult to do anything dexterous with frozen stiff fingers, but Adaar has little choice but to force his rigid hands into trying to work the wheel, slowly turning it inch by inch. An arrow whizzes by and lodges itself into the wood right next to his head, and another embeds itself where his head had been just a moment ago as he turns around.

Diving deep into the reserves of his very being, he calls upon the full fury of the blizzard, shielding everything from sight in the flurry of snow and ice. Icicles pelt his legs and arms, breaking upon contact and most likely leaving bruises -- and that’s at the center, where it’s weakest.

Exhaustion stills the storm, and Adaar is relieved to find the lyrium templars buried, crushed and otherwise mauled by his magic. Barely able to string two thoughts together, Adaar returns to the reason he’s out here risking his life to begin with.

With one last turn of the wheel, the trebuchet is finally aimed at the mountain looming over Haven. Adaar presses himself against the counterweight, trying to see if it’s aligned properly despite the surging adrenaline, exhaustion, and generally poor eyesight making a visual assessment unreliable.

The archdemon roars overhead, the rattling sound sending a chill through the bones of anyone who might hear, and dangerously close by. Adaar looks up to see it heading right for him, and as it closes the distance he can see fire gurgling in its throat. Panic seizes him, and he’s frozen to the spot for a second too long before he tries to dash out of the way, and the flames lick at his back as the fireball flings him away from the trebuchet and sends him rolling.

The world spins for a moment, then the disorientation settles and Adaar scrambles to his feet. But it’s not without great effort; he’s completely spent, his mana dangerously low and his energy all but depleted. Adrenaline is all that keeps him standing. Flames encircle the perimeter around the trebuchet, trapping him.

There’s something to be said of the feeling of knowing you’re facing your death.

The flames part as a tall figure walks through them, as if they were yielding to its presence. There’s a great hollow sickness that permeates from it, and as Adaar’s vision focuses he can finally clearly look upon the Elder One.

Plates of red lyrium have fused with his face, along with the tattered remains of a cloak. One eye is pale and bloodshot, and the other milky white with wisps of red. Adaar doesn’t often feel small, but before the Elder One he feels miniscule. Even from a distance it’s obvious he towers over even the tallest Tal-Vashoth. He walks with grim determination, eyes fixed on Adaar, and as he approaches the Elder One speaks:

“Pretender, you toy with forces beyond your ken, no more.”

His voice is like the depths of the ocean deep. Dark and forgotten, and reaching further than the mind can comprehend.

“Know me, know what you have pretended to be.”

Adaar’s insticts tell him to step back, but the ground shakes and throws him off-balance as the archdemon lands heavily behind him, scampering forward as it reigns in its massive limbs. The world is harrowingly still, as if nothing can breathe.

Adaar is surrounded. There’s no escaping.

“Exalt the Elder One. Know the will that is Corypheus.”

Now that certainly is a name that sounds ancient and malicious.

Knees shaking from fear and exhaustion, Adaar struggles to stand upright. He summons the veneer of defiance, of courage, and lifts his head high as Corypheus stares him down. Adaar knows, more than ever, that he’s staring death in the eye. More than anything he wants to turn tail and run, to hide away and save his skin, but Haven needs him. The Inquisition needs him and they need him alive for just a little longer.

“You came for me,” Adaar says around the fear thick in his throat. “So here I am.”

“I came for the Anchor. Who is attached to it is meaningless,” Corypheus says, reaching out towards him. The Mark sparks, sending pain shooting through Adaar. It feels as if it is being pulled, beckoned by the strange orb that Corypheus holds in his other hand.

“It’s your fault, Herald,” he says, and the title sounds more like an insult than a mark of honor. “You interrupted a ritual years in the planning, and instead of dying you stole its purpose.”

Adaar has no idea what he’s talking about. He doesn’t remember a ritual, or ever meeting the Elder One before now. What happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes? Why can’t he remember anything?

“I do not know how you survived, but what marks you as ‘touched’, what you flail at rifts; I crafted to assault the very Heavens.”

Corypheus twists his hand, and the Mark sparks again. It’s as painful as when Adaar first remembers receiving the Mark, when the pulses of the Breach were driving it to slowly kill him. He falls to his knees, clutching his wrist in a white-knuckled grip, as if applying his own pressure will someone alleviate the pain.

“You have been a stubborn thorn; a festering worm. You will come to know your place, as all shall know their place.”

This is madness. Adaar has no idea what’s going on, what any of this means, what the Breach was trying to accomplish. Neither this nor what Alexius said in Redcliffe makes anything easier to understand. But Adaar has to keep him talking, keep him distracted and monologuing and not killing him. Not yet.

Though he’s not sure whether he is screaming or not, Adaar finds his breath in the midst of the excruciating pain and yells, “What is the Anchor!?”

Corypheus twists his wrist, and the Mark flares again. Adaar does cry out for certain this time, and he collapses onto his side. He can’t move, can barely speak, but he has to keep Corypheus distracted, has to stay alive.

“The Anchor is a key,” Corypheus says curtly. “The key that opens the path to my rightful ascension.”

With one mighty stride, he’s made his way over to Adaar, and he swoops down and lifts the fully grown Tal-Vashoth with one hand, holding him several feet off the ground.

“I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods of the Empire in person. I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers. For a thousand years I was confused, no more,” he says. “I have gathered the  _ will _ to return under no name but my own. To champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world.”

Adaar struggles hopelessly in his iron grip, legs flailing useless in the air. The Empire? Breaching the Fade? Somewhere in the back of his mind, Adaar remembers the chantry tale of what turned the Maker away from them; the first Sin what doomed the world and started the Blights.

Something about a group of magisters, a city in the Fade, and the home of the Maker.

Corypheus growls, “Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the Gods and it was  _ empty _ .”

“The Anchor... is a key into the Fade?” Adaar gasps. Corypheus’ blank stare feels poisonous, that if he looks into his eyes for too long his soul will wither away.

“A key that you stole, and now spoiled. The Anchor is permanent, you are useless to me,” he says, then tosses him aside without any effort. “But your foolish meddling is intolerable all the same.”

Adaar slams into the trebuchet, the breath knocked out of him. In some manner of comprehension he thinks he doesn’t want to die, but there has to be a way. He has to find a way. He just has to stay alive a little while longer.

“Your forces will be crushed, your struggling rendered meaningless, and you will die.”

Behind Corypheus, crouched behind some crates, Adaar sees Kilian -- the fool followed him! The Warden waves and urgently points over to the edge of the hill, mouthing something. In Adaar’s divided attention and adrenaline-surged brain, he can barely make out any kind of words he’s trying to convey, but the most sensible guess is ‘ _ cave _ ’.

But his eyes are drawn away from Kilian. There, in the sky, he sees the signal from Cullen; two burning arrows shot high into the sky. Haven has been evacuated.

Adaar gets to his feet.

“There will come a day where I will die,” he says. “But it is not today, nor will it be by your hand.”

Corypheus narrows his eyes at him, flexing his clawed hand, but Adaar does not intend to fight.

“You may have crushed Haven, but the Inquisition will live on.”

In a breath, Adaar dives to the side and releases the trebuchet’s counterweight, and it slings the payload into the mountain looming over the village. The giant rumbles as snow banks are knocked loose and sent roaring down the slopes in an unstoppable avalanche.

While Corypheus is distracted, the Magister’s attention fixed on the rapidly approaching wave of snow, Adaar scrambles to his feet, sprinting after Kilian who has a similar idea. There is no way he’s going to escape the avalanche, and he honestly doesn’t know why he’s trying, but a desperate instinct to survive drives him onwards, ready to toss himself over the edge and press up against it and hope for some kind of miracle to protect him from the snow.

But as he comes to the edge, he sees first a steeper fall than he anticipated, and what looks to be some sort of mining shaft of some kind. Out of options, he throws himself into the gap just as the avalanche is upon him. Planks break on his ribs, rocks bruise his arms and legs, and finally he hits the ground in the cold hard deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did u know u can skip like 60% of the fighting in Haven if u just spam the trebuchets bc cutscenes despawn all enemies. This doesn’t rly work in fanfiction though sadly….. I dont like writing action scenes but i need some high tempo stuff to balance out the melancholy internal monologue and also Adaar needs to look cool to impress his crush
> 
> i completely forgot how much corypheus talks until i had to go back and rewatch the cutscene for this


	6. Every scar will build my Throne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kilian’s breathing is growing more shallow by the second. He’s so cold. Everything is so cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your kudos and sweet, supportive comments. I hope everyone’s staying safe and taking care of yourselves and protecting those who are vulnerable. This chapter is REALLY short but it’s mostly filler to get the ball rolling and also *gestures at relationships tag*
> 
> Chapter title thats way too perfect for Adaar is from _Throne_ by Bring Me The Horizon -- another song rec for Adaar in general is _Hungry Face_ by Mogwai, which is an instrumental so can’t use it for chapter title but it's rly good

Oftentimes, familiarity warrants comfort. One expects that things you know well and have encountered many times previously, know the ins and outs of, will provide you with a sense of stability and security. _Familiar_ usually has a positive connotation.

Pain, cold, and darkness is very familiar to Adaar - experienced separately or all at once - and is the stark opposite of comforting. He’s found little rest in unconsciousness, and exhaustion pins him to the ground like a blanket of lead. He was told death is peaceful, that death takes you to the Fade and beyond that to somewhere the living can’t understand, and thus he knows he’s not dead. Because this certainly doesn’t feel like peace.

For a moment, though, he’s content to lay there and let death inch closer, entertains the thought of leaving the world with a heroic self-sacrifice and with that dramatic end, finally rest. But then he thinks about the Inquisition, lost in the frostbacks with nowhere to go; not just soldiers but refugees too, and civilians, and pilgrims; his _People_.

He’s still alive. If he gave up now, then what would that make him?

Adaar forces his eyes open, stiffly rolls onto his side despite the pain that blooms in his chest if he as much as moves. As long as he draws breath, the Inquisition will have a Herald, and the Herald mustn’t abandon his duty. This is his _role_ , and frozen and wounded in the dark he feels more than hears Sataa telling him about the true nature of the world; change.

He can summon the scene in his mind as easily as if it had happened yesterday. Adaar, curled up on the floor, arms wrapped around himself as he counts all the folds on the blanket hanging halfway off the bed. Sataa, kneeling next to him, a wizened hand settled on his shoulder, like a father comforting a child. He’d fallen out of bed, or thrown himself, he can’t recall. But Sataa had heard the commotion and gone to him.

He doesn’t remember what caused his distress, either - a nightmare, or a memory, or if he simply felt lost - but he remembers what Sataa said;

“There is no one role, and there is no one name. Your role changes because _you_ change, and no one can assign it to you,” he told him, squeezing his shoulder. “Your role isn’t chosen, _imekari_ . It is _found,_ one after the other. Life is an endless line of discoveries.”

And almost as if Sataa knew this moment would etch itself into Adaar’s memories, he’d leaned in and asked,

“What have _you_ found, Kaas-Adaar?

Adaar sees how each choice he’s made leads him to the next decision. He decided to join the Valo-kas. He decided to not refuse the job at the Conclave. He decided to stay and seal the Breach, instead of running away. But he still isn’t sure of what it is he has found.

In the present, about five feet away surrounded by debris and broken planks, lies Kilian. With great effort, but driven by new determination, Adaar manages to crawl over to him, having to teach his body how to move again all within a handful of seconds.

The Warden is pale, his lips purple. The first panicked thought is that he’s dead, but then Adaar sees the weak rise and fall of his chest. Adaar casts his eyes upwards, trying to see from where they fell into the abandoned mine shaft. The cavern ceiling is swallowed by darkness and it’s safe to assume the fall knocked them both out, along with being the adversary responsible for the pain all along Adaar’s side, concentrated in his chest, right where his ribs are.

But right now, the cold is their deadliest foe.

Amidst exhaustion and stress, Adaar singles out Shiovera’s survival lessons from the muddled thoughts thickly shifting in his mind like tar. He needs to raise Kilian’s core body temperature, but just a fire won’t be enough. He needs to be swaddled by warmth, and it’s not like Adaar can just roast him over a bonfire like a boar. He can’t even _make_ a bonfire to start with.

Drawing himself to his knees is easier said than done, and it takes an embarrassing amount of effort just to be slightly more upright than lying prone on the ground. Eventually, Adaar is sitting up, gasping for breath, and then bracing himself for hauling Kilian into his lap.

It feels akin to cradling ice when he wraps his arms around him, and he imagines it will do very little considering he is very cold himself.

He presses his face against the top of Kilian’s head and his hair tickles his nose. If he doesn’t conjure a fire, Kilian will die. Squeezing the Warden tight, he tries to reach that place of non-thought that scorched the apostate’s barrier - a lifetime ago now, it feels like - but nothing happens. Adaar is too weak. He doubts he could even summon _ice_ from the Fade, right now.

Kilian’s breathing is growing more shallow by the second. He’s so cold. Everything is so cold.

A shallow sob wrings its way out of his throat, and his side flares painfully with it. No matter what he does, everything keeps going wrong. Anger burns hotly under his skin at the unfairness of the world, at the seemingly infinite odds stacked against him. He’s a fool to think there’s any point to pressing on, all he’ll ever do is lose people. How many died in the attack on Haven? How many more will die, after all is said and done?

He can hardly breathe for how the walls of his chest close in on themselves, crushing his lungs and heart with such an immense pressure you’d think the Maker himself has closed his cruel fist around Adaar’s torso.

Furiously, he thinks this is his punishment for turning away from the Qun, and in his selfish struggle against the laws of the world everyone around him suffers too, by proximity. He feels hot, but whether it’s from anger or if hypothermia is finally setting in and beckoning him to his end is impossible to tell.

His hysterical ruminations are brought to a halt when Kilian suddenly shivers. Movement; a sign of life. Adaar’s mind blanks when Kilian then blinks blearily, his bright eyes looking lost, but clear. “Am I dead?” he murmurs, and Adaar could cry from relief. Or laugh, but that seems like it would be very painful at the present moment.

Adaar manages to strain out, “No.”

“Ah, so this is _your_ bosom, not the Maker’s.”

“Yes.”

“Mmm… You’re softer than I imagined,” Kilian says with a hum, closing his eyes and, to Adaar’s bewilderment, turning his face and half-burying it in Adaar’s chest. “And so warm.”

Adaar shivers and it has nothing to do with the cold, or the pain. There are far too many implications to such a statement; that Kilian has spent time imagining what it’d feel like to be held by Adaar. He’d figured Kilian was too preoccupied with the Iron Bull and _his_ ample bosom, which is far more impressive than Adaar’s. He thought humans only liked one person at a time. That’s why they get married; they mate for life, like birds.

Not knowing what else to say, Adaar says, “Thank you.”

Kilian hums again, pensive. “You’re being awfully short-spoken, even for you.”

“Speaking hurts. My ribs are bruised.”

“Oh, then I shouldn’t be pressing against you, should I? Sorry.”

Kilian shifts slightly in his arms, easing off of his torso, but wisely does not try to remove himself from Adaar’s warm embrace. When was the last time he held someone? Before the Conclave, surely.

“What are you doing here?” Adaar demands hotly, making Kilian flinch. Exhaustion has made his temper short, and his emotions are all in a tizzy. He’s only angry because he was frightened, and he hopes Kilian realizes that. “You were supposed to go with the Inquisition.”

Kilian makes a strained expression at Adaar’s sudden anger, which quickly turns apologetic.

“I overheard what you said to Chancellor Roderick,” Kilian confesses. “About the trebuchets. And-- well, only a Warden can kill an archdemon, so I thought you’d need me.”

He pauses for a moment, then sighs and softly adds, “And I’d hate to see you die.”

Adaar looks at him, waiting for something about how the Inquisition needs him, or being the Herald, or something, but it never comes. Kilian meets his eyes steadily, remaining quiet. A simple, plain truth, just like that.

He’s been wanting simple for so long, and now when he’s faced with it, he doesn’t know what to do with it. Kilian slipped out of the chantry with the same foolish, self-sacrificing notion as Adaar -- all alone -- on the simple basis that he didn’t want Adaar to die.

What’s most likely to have happened is that if Kilian hadn’t been there, Adaar wouldn't have known about this mine shaft, and he would have been buried in the avalanche.

“Thank you,” he says again and looks away, unable to keep eye contact any longer, ashamed of his outburst.

Kilian chuckles, giving his arm a sluggish little pat, dispersing the odd tension that has been progressively building since he stirred. “That’s what Wardens do,” he says. “ _In death, sacrifice._ I’m the hero’s hero.”

“I know,” Adaar says. “This is not the first time you’ve risked your life for me.”

Kilian is given pause. “Pardon? I feel like I would remember something like that. Or is it a metaphor?”

Adaar shakes his head -- slowly, as to be merciful on his painfully sore muscles.

Watching the brutal deaths of his companions is not something he is soon to forget, even if in the end it became something that never happened -- or will happen, time travel is confusing. He sighs, wincing as his chest protests sharply on the inhale.

“You wouldn’t remember it,” he explains, straining to speak. “In the broken future in Redcliffe, you gave your life to ensure I made it back to the present.”

“Ah,” Kilian says. “You would do the same thing in my position. You already have.”

Adaar remains quiet, and he sees that Kilian is right. He gave his life for the Inquisition, they both did, and they survived.

Tucked away in the quiet of this forgotten cavern it feels like all of this only half-exists; a moment in parenthesis. His steadily budding affection for the man shivering in his arms is less frightening and overwhelming, wrapped in cotton as it is, but they can’t stay here. There’s nothing in this mine; no food, no drinkable water. They can’t stay, the Inquisition needs them.

“We have to find the others,” Adaar says.

“Agreed,” Kilian replies firmly, then settles more comfortably in Adaar’s arms and says, “Just give me another minute.”

It’s not like he could tell him no, even if he wanted to.

 

***

 

Haven is unrecognizable when they find their way out of the mine. Everywhere they look there’s nothing but snow, with pine trees peeking out of the ground like the tips of icebergs, the rest of the body hidden beneath the surface.

“I think I can see the roof of the Chantry sticking out of the snow over there,” Kilian says, pointing into the nondescript distance. Adaar turns to look, but it’s too far into the dark to see even without the snow falling from the skies.

“You know I can’t see that,” he says.

“That’s why I’m _telling_ you,” Kilian replies. “You buried Haven, alright.”

Trying not to think about the sheer amount of bodies they are undoubtedly walking over right now, Adaar trudges on in the direction he pointed. The mountain path was behind the Chantry; their best bet is to go that way. Kilian follows without a word, wrapping his arms around himself and shivering against the cold.

“Do you know where we’re going?” he asks.

“No,” Adaar admits. “But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that going somewhere is better than going nowhere.”

“My parents taught me the opposite,” Kilian says to make conversation, then adopts a shrill tone to no doubt mimic the voice of his mother, “ _If you get lost, stay where you are_ , they said.”

He pauses for a moment, then morosely adds, “Of course, that only really applies to when people are looking for you.”

The gentle snowfall seems to lose its patience as time goes on. The wind picks up, tugging at their legs and chilling them even further; drying out their bare faces and making it even harder to see. Too stubborn to know when to quit, the both of them continue onward across the endless dunes of snow, until trees begin to appear around them - regular trees, not buried ones.

There’s scarcely any difference between the blizzard and the fog, and Adaar walks in a daze, each step more difficult than the previous. It feels almost as if he's drifting in and out of consciousness while walking, and he thinks it’s only a matter of time before he collapses face first into the mud.

No... not mud, snow.

Adaar shakes his head as memories replace the present, trying to put it back in order, and only manages to disorient himself further. He staggers to the side and just barely catches himself on the trunk of a pine before he takes a nosedive. It wasn’t this cold in the Free Marches.

“Hey,” a voice ahead says. Adaar stops, focuses his useless eyes on the blurry shape in front of him. He’d forgotten Kilian was there. How could he forget? His smile brightens the world. That’s not something you forget.

“There was a fire here. Another one over there, and then a real big one.” Kilian’s words are slurred and heavy, and he has to take deep breaths after every other word. Adaar stops at his side, and Kilian grabs onto his arm to steady himself, drained from the effort of speaking.

Several fires means a lot of people went through here. The Inquisition?

Adaar realizes he’s staring at the ground and lifts his head. For once he’s glad he doesn’t have any horns; his head feels heavy as it is. It's like Varric is sitting on it, making his movements slow and sluggish. In the darkness, streaked by wind and snow, is a warm orange glow.

“Fire?” Adaar wonders aloud. Kilian is sagging against him now, face buried in his side. He’s still standing on his own, but he doesn’t respond. It’s as good a chance as any.

He can’t feel his body anymore. The vague sensation of an arm around the small of his back registers in the back of his mind, and he can hear Kilian’s labored breaths next to him. They’re stumbling through the snow, staying on their feet only by some sort of miracle. They lean heavily on each other, supporting themselves like a house of cards.

His perception of his own body is so warped he can’t imagine what he must look like to others; an amalgamation of oddly attached limbs draped over an exhausted hypothermic Warden.

“I’m going to fall over,” Adaar announces, but he’s not sure if the words are coherent coming out of his mouth. Kilian says something warbled, but whether the issue lies with his inability to speak or Adaar’s inability to comprehend is known only to the Maker now.

After an ambitious and miraculous five additional steps, Adaar’s legs finally give out and he falls to his knees. Kilian doesn’t stand a chance against his weight and is pulled down with him, but he is far too exhausted to protest the transpiring events.

At the edges he feels dull hands grasp his shoulders, like a memory of a memory. A raspy accented voice calls out above his head, and more hands close around his arms. The absence of Kilian pressed against his side leaves a gaping hollow, and he’s vaguely aware of voices around him. He tries to pry his eyes open - he didn’t even realize he closed them - and sees the blurry silhouette of heavy boots sinking into the snow in front of him, then they step to the side. Arms close around him, a grunt of effort huffs warm air on his ear, and the world spins and his vision swims and bleeds out into chaos.

 

It’s quiet, but noisy at the same time….

… Warmth, pressure, softness…

Noises, voices… Snaps and crackles of fire…

 

Someone feels his forehead, then his cheek, then his neck. The hand is warm.

“Is he sleeping?” a kind, motherly voice asks. A gruff voice above him replies, “I don’t think so. His ears are twitching.”

Adaar finds himself in the whisper of a memory again. In his mind, he hears elvish drifting around the tent, and feels a foreign weightlessness on his chest. _It must be the stress_ , he thinks, _that’s reminding me of such old things._ He knows Apothecary Adan is only trying to do his job, but he wishes it could be done without bothering him.

“I’m resting,” Adaar murmurs, and there are no stitches to strain against. “Let me be.”

It’s impossible to tell if Adan is offended, “Alright, your Worship.”

The sound of people around him, speaking in the distance, a fire nearby, footsteps and movement… It’s so different from what he’s been contending with for the past weeks; total silence, in his quiet chambers tucked into the corner of the Chantry. This feels better. This feels like home.

Feeling comforted by the lullaby of living beings, warmed by furs, and promised to be left in peace, Adaar falls asleep.

If he dreams, they’re gone from his thoughts the moment he stirs. He still feels sluggish and sore, but remarkably better than he did before. The pain in his chest is gone, replaced by a much more manageable tenderness. As he turns in his cot, he notices he’s been relieved of most of his gear, wearing only his base layer of clothing. He’s also strategically propped up by an impressive number of blankets and pillows, so that he may sleep sitting upright.

He is in a large tent - one among many- and there are other cots here. The one directly opposite to his own is occupied by Kilian, fast asleep with his face lax and unconcerned and the back of his hand gently pressed to his face.

Adan strolls in, notices Adaar is awake and gives him a curt nod, then heads over to Kilian and pulls his blankets down. He’s shirtless, and bandages are wrapping neatly around his torso. There’s red blotches here and there, wounds that Adaar never noticed; a small spot below his left collarbone, a larger stain where the chest meets the shoulder.

“Spots haven’t grown larger,” Adan mumbles to himself, scribbling down notes on a parchment sitting atop a makeshift table at Kilian’s bedside. “Bleeding has stopped. Change bandages when he wakes up.”

Then he wanders over to Adaar.

“Hell of an ordeal you’ve dragged yourself through this time,” he tells him.

Adaar merely sighs.

“Any pain? Soreness?” he presses impatiently.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Adaar replies. “Just tired.”

That’s all Adan needed to hear. With a brusque “Good” and brief instructions not to do anything strenuous such as cause an avalanche or face unspeakable evils, he leaves the Herald be.

The general mill of voices outside slowly escalates into a heated discussion, and Adaar peers outside the tent to see the Inquisition’s council locked in an angry debate. He can’t say he has any particular desire to join them, and simply burrows deeper into his pillows and blankets. He’s supposed to be resting, anyway. Though his body is mended, he is still drained and exhausted, and he’s yet to have anything to eat, as well.

The arguing continues, right outside his tent. Adaar shifts in his cot, twists uncomfortably to extract a pillow from underneath him, and presses it over his head. It does little to muffle the voices, and he has precious little mana to cast any sort of spell that would… Do something. Illusory tricks such as invisibility, muffling sounds, manipulating light aren’t exactly things he’s had any experience with. Or know how to do, at all.

When the first few hours of dusk stain the camp orange, Mother Giselle glides silently into the tent.

“I am of no doubt that you are hungry,” she says with a gentle smile, lowering herself onto a chair at Adaar’s bedside, leaning forward to offer him a slightly charred platter. There’s roast, cheese, and a handful of those delightful tiny tomatoes.

“Thank you,” Adaar says, keeping his voice low in anticipation of pain but finding there is none. Trying to at least have some semblance of manners in polite company, he eats his meal slowly. Between mouthfuls, he asks, “What of Kilian?”

Mother Giselle glances over at the Warden, who lets out a single loud snore. It’s abruptly cut off, then he turns in his cot, and quiets down once more.

“It would seem he is busy,” she says.

Adaar nods and continues to eat. All the while the advisors argue outside.

“Is that absolutely necessary?” he grumbles, casting another dark look their way. He’s been putting up with their incessant noise for upwards of an hour, now, and his patience is wearing thin.

“What happened in Haven has been a harrowing experience. Our situation - your situation - is complicated,” Mother Giselle says. “Our leaders struggle because of what we survivors witnessed.”

“Do they have to struggle so loudly?” Adaar sighs.

Mother Giselle shakes her head, but not unkindly. “They are frightened, and your noble sacrifice has given us a moment of stillness. In these moments, we have only our thoughts and our doubts.”

Adaar knows this all too well. He fears the silence as much as he craves it. Mother Giselle places a gentle hand upon his arm, as if she can feel his doubt, too.

“The more the enemy is beyond us, the more miraculous your actions appear. And the more our trials seem _ordained_.”

“I made the decision to bury Haven,” Adaar says stubbornly, still feeling like if the Maker is real, he must be laughing at him. “There was no other influence.” So easily was he knocked down by their adversary, this _Corypheus_ the Maker or Andraste or whomever supposedly set him up to rise against.

Mother Giselle is not disturbed by his lack of faith. She likely sees him as lost, and she would not be wrong. There was only one time in his life where Adaar did not feel lost, and that was among the Valo-Kas, his Kith.

“Perhaps,” she says. “But then, somehow, you escaped the mountain’s wrath, near unscathed.”

With a huff, Adaar shakes his head, “No Maker pulled me out of the snow. Kilian did.”

“Warden Ardwell is Andrastian. Is it so difficult to imagine our Maker enacting His will through your friend?”

“Yes, it is.” Adaar grows tired of this. It’s not like he thinks Mother Giselle bears any ill intent, but he’s had more than enough people imposing their beliefs on him to last him a lifetime. He gets up off his cot and leaves behind the comfort of warm furs and blankets, trying to outrun the anxiety festering in his throat. Mother Giselle’s faith frightens him, just as the Maker frightens him.

Adaar doesn’t want to be a Chosen One. He doesn’t want to consider the implications of being set on a predestined path. He doesn’t want his autonomy taken from him again, or to entertain the thought that he didn’t have any to begin with. He’s the Herald because he chooses to be every morning, not because a long-dead woman told him to.

“I didn’t leave the Qun so that I could leap into the arms of someone else who’d handpick my fate for me,” he says heavily. “I walk my own path.”

Adaar has heard bits and pieces of the Chant. It’s a beautiful song, hitting every mark of a good story, but despite the conviction of its singer he’s never seen it as more than that; a tale. He’s heard it sung by the Chantry sisters in Haven, heard its echo in the Fade, noticed it drift in through open windows at the various places he’s slept in throughout the years.

When Mother Giselle begins singing, however, it’s not quite like those times.

The most significant difference is that Adaar can now clearly hear the words, and though he’s not familiar with the religious significance, he can grasp its meaning; hope. Mother Giselle steps forward, moves past him, her eyes closed as the Chant guides her voice. Then, more join with hers. The people of the Inquisition draw nearer, beckoned by their faith, giving their own voices to the Chant. Mother Giselle no longer leads the Chant; the song has become a single unified body, with Adaar at the very center, quietly listening.

 

_“Look to the sky,_

_For one day soon,_

_The Dawn will come”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw you’re horrendously socially awkward and your entire crew serenades you
> 
> When you got writer’s block u just gotta keep reminding urself “finished is better than perfect” and GIT ER DONE


End file.
